DV  /AAVRIER 


\Dx  c>^iori 


FRANCES  CLARKE  SAYERS 


IS«  w 


TRILBY 


H 


BY 


GEORGE    DU    MAURIER 

AUTHOR    OF    "  PETER    IBBETSON  " 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS   BY   THJl!  AUTHOR 


'  Aux  rumtellci  joe  j'apporte 

FQ*  beaux  ytux  vont  pleurtr  " 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER    &.    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 


TRILBY 

Copyright,  1*94,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Copyright.  1922,  by  Gerald  Du  Maurier  and  May  Du  Maurier  Coles 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


re  <-f 


"Helas!    Je  sais  un  chant  (Tamowr, 
Triste  et  gait  tour  d  tour!" 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGK 

"IT  WAS  TRILBY!" Frontispiece 

TAFFY,  ALIAS  TALBOT  WYNNE 4 

"THE  LAIRD  OF  COCKPEN" 5 

"THE  THIRD  HE  WAS  'LITTLE  BILLKE'" 7 

"  IT  DID  ONE  GOOD  TO  LOOK  AT  HIM " 9 

AMONG  THE  OLD  MASTERS 13 

"WISTFUL  AND  SWEET" 17 

THE  "ROSEMONDE"  OF  SCHUBERT 21 

TRILBY'S  LEFT  FOOT 27 

THE  FLEXIBLE  FLAGEOLET 31 

THE  BRIDGE  OF  ARTS 34 

"THREE  MUSKETEERS  OF  THE  BRUSH" 39 

TAFFY  MAKES  THE  SALAD 43 

"  THE  GLORY  THAT  WAS  GREECE  " 47 

TRILBY'S  FOREBEARS 52 

TAIL-PIECE 56 

"AS  BAD  AS  THEY  MAKE  'EM1' 59 

"A  VOICE  HE  DIDN'T  UNDERSTAND" 63 

"AND  so,  NO  MORE" 67 

"  '  TWO  ENGLANDERS  IN  ONE  DAY  '  " 70 

"'HIMMEL!   THE  ROOF  OF  YOUR  MOUTH'" 73 

"'CA  FERA  UNE  FAMEUSE  CRAPULE  DE  MOINS  !'" 77 

"'AT  YOU  SEEN  MY  FAHZER'S  OLE  SHOES?'" 81 

TAFFY  A  L'ECHELLE! 85 

"  THE  FOX  AND  THE  CROW  " 89 

THE  LATIN  QUARTER 92 

CUISINE  BOURGEOISE  EN  BOH2ME 95 

"THE  SOFT  EYES" 98 

ILYSSUS    .  .101 


vi 

PA«B 

"'VOILA  L'KSPAYCK  DK  IIOM  KIR  JIR  SWEK!'" 106 

TIT  FOR  TAT HI 

THE  HAPPY  LIFE H« 

"'LKT  ME  00,  TAFFY  .  .  .'" 119 

"'QU'EST  CE  QU'IL  A  DONC,  CE  LITRIBILI  ?'" 121 

REPENTANCE 125 

CONFESSION 129 

"ALL  AS  IT  USED  TO  BE" 133 

unvi.s  GRAY  STARS" 135 

"AN  INCUBUS" 137 

THK  CAPITALIST  AND  THE  SWELL 141 

"'i  WILL  NOT!   i  WILL  NOT!'" 161 

DODOR  IN  BIS  GLOKY 153 

HOIK  I.  DK  LA  ROCHEM ARTEL 165 

CHRISTMAS  EVE 161 

"'ALLONS  GLYCERE !   ROUGIS  MON  VERRE.  .  .  .'" 163 

SOUVENIR 168 

"MY  SISTKR  DEAR" 173 

A  DUCAL  FRENCH  FIGHT] XG-COCK 176 

'"ANSWER  ME,  TRILBY!'" 179 

A   CARYffJHDE 180 

'"LES  GLOUGLOUX  DU  TIN  1  QUAT' sous.  .  .  .'" 183 

"'IS   SHE    A    LADY,  MR.  WYNNE?'  " 187 

"'FOND  OF   HIM?      AREN'T    TOU T  " 191 

"SO    LIKE    LITTLE    BILLEE " 196 

"'I    MUST   TAKK   THE    BULL    BY   THE   HORNS '" 199 

'"TRILBY!    WHERE  is  SHE?" 203 

LA    Sff.UR    DE    LITREBILI 206 

"HE  FELL  A-WEEPING,  QUITE  DESPERATELY" 207 

"THE  SWEET  MELODIC  PHRASE" 211 

"SORROWFULLY,  ARM  IN  ARM" 216 

DEMORALIZATION 226 

FRKD  WALKER 227 

PLATONIC  LOVE 230 

"DARLINGS,  OLD  OR  YOUNG " 286 

"THE  MOON-DIAL" 237 

THE  CHAIRMAN 239 

A  HAPPY  DINNER 246 

"A-SMOKIN'  THEIR  POIPES  AND  CIOYARS"                     247 


vii 

PA  OB 

"  BONJOUR,  SUZON  !" 253 

A  HUMAN  NIGHTINGALE.     ...............  257 

ODP-AND-BALL 263 

SWEET  ALICE 267 

"MAY  HEAVEN  GO  WITH  HER!" 272 

"  '  SO  MUCH  FOR  ALICK,  TRAY  '  " 277 

"  '  YOU'RE  A  THIEF,  SIR  !'  " 287 

"  AN  ATMOSPHERE  OF  BANK-NOTES  AND  GOLD " 293 

"A  LITTLE  PICTURE  OF  THE  THAMES" 296 

'"AH!     THE    BEAUTIFUL   INTERMENT,   MESSIEURS1.'" 301 

"?AUVRE  TRILBY" 303 

"'.'E  PRONG!'" 307 

'"OON  PAIR  DE  GONG  BLONG1" 311 

GECKO 315 

"AU    CLAIR   DE    LA    LUNE  " 319 

"  OUVRE-MOI   TA    PORTE   POUR   L' AMOUR   DE    DIEU  !" 322 

"  MALBROUCK    S'EN    VA-T'EN    GUERRE  " 325 

"  AUX  NOUVELLES  QUE  j'APPORTE,  TOS   BEAUX  YEUX  VONT    PLEURER  !"  .  329 

UN    IMPROMPTU    DE    CHOPIN 331 

"  AND   THE    REMEMBRANCE    OF   THEM HAND  IN   HAND  "......  338 

"'l    BELIEVE    YOU,  MY    BOY!'" 341 

"MAMAN  DUCHESSE" 351 

THE  CUT  DIRECT 354 

"  PETIT  ENFANT,  j'AIMAIS  D'UN  AMOUR  TENDRE  .  .  .  ." 358 

"  '  VITE  !  VITE  !  UN  COMMISSAIRE  DE  POLICE  !'  " 363 

"l  SUPPOSE  YOU  DO  ALL  THIS  KIND  OF  THING  FOR  MERE  AMUSEMENT, 

MR.  WYNNE?" 367 

THE  FIRST  VIOLIN  LOSES  HIS  TEMPER 373 

"  HAST  THOU  FOUND  ME,  O  MINE  ENEMY  ?" 375 

" 'OH,  DON'T  YOU  REMEMBER  SWEET  ALICE,  BEN  BOLT?'" 377 

"THE  LAST  THEY  SAW  OF  SVENGALI  " 383 

'"THREE  NICE  CLEAN  ENGLISHMEN'" 386 

"  PffiNA    PEDE    CLAUDO  " 389 

"  THE  OLD  STUDIO  " : 391 

"  '  ET  MAINTENANT  DORS,  MA  MIGNONNE  !'" 395 

"TAFFY  WAS  ALLOWED  TO  SEE  GECKO" 400 

A  FAIR  BLANCHISSEUSE  DE  FIN 403 

A  THRONE  IN  BOHEMIA 407 

U'OH,  MY  POOR  GIRL!  MY  POOR  GIRL'.'" 410 


vili 

PAO1 

"'AH,  POOR  MAMMA  !    SHE  WAS  ETIR  SO  MUCH  PRETTIER  THAK  THAT  1' "  416 

"4TO   8INO    I.IKK    THAT    IS    TO  P*AT f  " 422 

" '  THJC   REMEMBRANCE   OF  THAT    PALM    SUNDAY  !'  " 425 

FOR   OKCKO 431 

"ODT  OF  THE   MYSTERIOUS    EAST" 482 

"'SVENGALI!  .  .  .   SVENGALl!  .  .  .   SVKNGALI  !...'" 487 

"TOCT   VIENT    A    POINT,  POUR   QUI    SAIT   ATTENDRE1." 489 

"l,  PETE    COELESTES.  ..." 441 

"PETITS  BONHEORS  DE  CONTREBAJ4DE  " 447 

ENTER  GECKO 451 

"  '  WE  TOOK  HKR  VOICE  NOTE  BY  NOTE  '" 455 

THE  NIGHTINGALE'S  FIRST  SONG 469 

"'ICH  HABE  OBUKBT  OND  GKLSBBT  T  " 461 

TAIL-PIECE 464 


TRILBY 


part  jffrst 

"Mimi  Pinson  est  tine  blonde, 

Une  blonde  que  Ton  connait ; 
Elle  n'a  qu'une  robe  an  monde, 
Landerirette  !  et  qu'un  bonnet  I" 

IT  was  a  fine,  sunny,  showery  day  in  April. 

The  big  studio  window  was  open  at  the  top,  and 
let  in  a  pleasant  breeze  from  the  northwest.  Things 
were  beginning  to  look  shipshape  at  last.  The  big 
piano,  a  semi-grand  by  Broad  wood,  had  arrived  from 
England  by  "the  Little  Quickness"  (la  Petite  Vitesse, 
as  the  goods  trains  are  called  in  France),  and  lay,  fresh- 
ly tuned,  alongside  the  eastern  wall ;  on  the  wall  op- 
posite was  a  panoply  of  foils,  masks,  and  boxing- 
gloves. 

A  trapeze,  a  knotted  rope,  and  two  parallel  cords, 
supporting  each  a  ring,  depended  from  a  huge  beam  in 
the  ceiling.  The  walls  were  of  the  usual  dull  red,  re- 
lieved by  plaster  casts  of  arms  and  legs  and  hands  and 
feet ;  and  Dante's  mask,  and  Michael  Angelo's  alto- 
rilievo  of  Leda  and  the  swan,  and  a  centaur  and  La- 
pith  from  the  Elgin  marbles — on  none  of  these  had 
the  dust  as  yet  had  time  to  settle. 


There  were  also  studies  in  oil  from  the  nude  ;  copies 
of  Titian,  Rembrandt,  Velasquez,  Rubens,  Tintoret, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci — none  of  the  school  of  Botticelli, 
Mantegna,  and  Co. — a  firm  whose  merits  had  not  as 
yet  been  revealed  to  the  many. 

Along  the  walls,  at  a  great  height,  ran  a  broad 
shelf,  on  which  were  other  casts  in  plaster,  terra-cotta, 
imitation  bronze ;  a  little  Theseus,  a  little  Venus  of 
Milo,  a  little  discobolus ;  a  little  flayed  man  threaten- 
ing high  heaven  (an  act  that  seemed  almost  pardon- 
able under  the  circumstances  !) ;  a  lion  and  a  boar  by 
Barye ;  an  anatomical  figure  of  a  horse  with  only  one 
leg  left  and  no  ears;  a  horse's  head  from  the  pedi- 
ment of  the  Parthenon,  earless  also ;  and  the  bust  of 
Clytie,  with  her  beautiful  low  brow,  her  sweet  wan 
gaze,  and  the  ineffable  forward  shrug  of  her  dear 
shoulders  that  makes  her  bosom  a  nest,  a  rest,  a  pillow, 
a  refuge — to  be  loved  and  desired  forever  by  genera- 
tion after  generation  of  the  sons  of  men. 

Near  the  stove  hung  a  gridiron,  a  frying-pan,  a 
toasting-fork,  and  a  pair  of  bellows.  In  an  adjoining 
glazed  corner  cupboard  were  plates  and  glasses,  black- 
handled  knives,  pewter  spoons,  and  three-pronged  steel 
forks;  a  salad-bowl,  vinegar  cruets,  an  oil-flask,  two 
mustard  -  pots  (English  and  French),  and  such  like 
things — all  scrupulously  clean.  On  the  floor,  which  had 
been  stained  and  waxed  at  considerable  cost,  lay  two 
chetah-skins  and  a  large  Persian  praying-rug.  One- 
half  of  it,  however  (under  the  trapeze  and  at  the 
furthest  end  from  the  window,  beyond  the  model 
throne),  was  covered  with  coarse  matting,  that  one 
might  fence  or  box  without  slipping  down  and  split- 


ting  one's  self  in  two,  or  fall  without  breaking  any 
bones. 

Two  other  windows  of  the  usual  French  size  and 
pattern,  with  shutters  to  them  and  heavy  curtains 
of  baize,  opened  east  and  west,  to  let  in  dawn  or 
sunset,  as  the  case  might  be,  or  haply  keep  them 
out.  And  there  were  alcoves,  recesses,  irregularities, 
odd  little  nooks  and  corners,  to  be  tilled  up  as  time 
wore  on  with  endless  personal  knick-knacks,  bibelots, 
private  properties  and  acquisitions — things  that  make 
a  place  genial,  homelike,  and  good  to  remember, 
and  sweet  to  muse  upon  (with  fond  regret)  in  after- 
years. 

And  an  immense  divan  spread  itself  in  width  and 
length  and  delightful  thickness  just  beneath  the  big 
north  window,  the  business  window — a  divan  so  im- 
mense that  three  well-fed,  well-contented  Englishmen 
could  all  lie  lazily  smoking  their  pipes  on  it  at  once 
without  being  in  each  other's  way,  and  very  often 
did! 

At  present  one  of  these  Englishmen — a  Yorkshire- 
man,  by-the-way,  called  Taffy  (and  also  the  Man  of 
Blood,  because  he  was  supposed  to  be  distantly  re- 
lated to  a  baronet) — was  more  energetically  engaged. 
Bare  -  armed,  and  in  his  shirt  and  trousers,  he  was 
twirling  a  pair  of  Indian  clubs  round  his  head.  His 
face  was  flushed,  and  he  was  perspiring  freely  and 
looked  fierce.  He  was  a  very  big  young  man,  fair, 
with  kind  but  choleric  blue  eyes,  and  the  muscles  of 
his  brawny  arm  were  strong  as  iron  bands. 

For  three  years  he  had  borne  her  Majesty's  com- 
mission, and  had  been  through  the  Crimean  campaign 


without  a  scratch.  He  would  have  been  one  of  the 
famous  six  hundred  in  the  famous  charge  at  Bala- 
klava  but  for  a  sprained  ankle  (caught  playing  leap- 
frog In  the  trenches),  which  kept  him  in  hospital  on 
that  momentous  day.  So  that  he  lost  his  chance  of 
glory  or  the  grave,  and  this  humiliating  misadventure 
had  sickened  him  of  soldiering  for  life,  and  he  never 
quite  got  over  it.  Then,  feeling  within  himself  an  ir- 
resistible vocation  for  art,  he  had  sold  out ;  and  here 
he  was  in  Paris,  hard  at  work,  as  we  see. 

He  was  good  -  looking, 
with  straight  features ;  but 
I  regret  to  say  that,  besides 
his  heavy  plungers  mus- 
tache, he  wore  an  immense 
pair  of  drooping  auburn 
whiskers,  of  the  kind  that 
used  to  be  called  Piccadilly 
weepers,  and  were  after- 
wards affected  by  Mr.  Soth- 
ern  in  Lord  Dundreary.  It 
was  a  fashion  to  do  so  then 
for  such  of  our  gilded  youth 
as  could  afford  the  time 
(and  the  hair);  the  bigger 

and  fairer  the  whiskers,  the  more  beautiful  was 
thought  the  youth !  It  seems  incredible  in  these  days, 
when  even  her  Majesty's  household  brigade  go  about 
with  smooth  cheeks  and  lips,  like  priests  or  play-actorn- 


TATFT,  ALIAS   TALBOT    WTNNB 


"  What's  become  of  all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brusli  their  bosoms  .  .  .  ?" 


Another  inmate  of  this  blissful  abode — Sandy,  the 
Laird  of  Cockpen,  as  he  was  called — sat  in  similarly 
simple  attire  at  his  easel,  painting  at  a  lifelike  little 
picture  of  a  Spanish  tor- 
eador serenading  a  lady 
of  high  degree  (in  broad 
daylight).  He  had  never 
been  to  Spain,  but  he  had 
a  complete  toreador's  kit 
— a  bargain  which  he 
had  picked  up  for  a  mere 
song  in  the  Boulevard 
du  Temple — and  he  had 
hired  the  guitar.  His 
pipe  was  in  his  mouth 
—reversed;  for  it  had 


'THE  LAIHD  OF  COCKPEN 


gone  out,  and  the  ashes 
were  spilled  all  over  his 

trousers,  where  holes  were  often  burned  in  this  way. 
Quite  gratuitously,  and  with  a  pleasing  Scotch  ac- 
cent, he  began  to  declaim  : 

"A  street  there  is  in  Paris  famous 

For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields ; 
Roo  Nerve  day  Petty  Shong  its  name  is — 
The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields.  ..." 

And  then,  in  his  keen  appreciation  of  the  immortal 
stanza,  he  chuckled  audibly,  with  a  face  so  blithe  and 
merry  and  well  pleased  that  it  did  one  good  to  look  at 
him. 

He  also  had  entered  life  by  another  door.  His  pa- 
rents (good,  pious  people  in  Dundee)  had  intended  that 


he  should  be  a  solicitor,  as  his  father  and  grandfather 
had  been  before  him.  And  here  he  was  in  Paris  fa- 
mous, painting  toreadors,  and  spouting  the  "  Ballad 
of  the  Bouillabaisse,*'  as  he  would  often  do  out  of 
sheer  lightness  of  heart — much  oftener,  indeed,  than 
he  would  say  his  prayers. 

Kneeling  on  the  divan,  with  his  elbow  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, was  a  third  and  much  younger  youth.  The 
third  he  was  "Little  Billee."  He  had  pulled  down 
the  green  baize  blind,  and  was  looking  over  the  roofs 
and  chimney-pots  of  Paris  and  all  about  with  all  his 
eyes,  munching  the  while  a  roll  and  a  savory  saveloy, 
in  which  there  was  evidence  of  much  garlic.  He  ate 
with  great  relish,  for  he  was  very  hungry ;  he  had 
been  all  the  morning  at  Carrel's  studio,  drawing  from 
the  life. 

Little  Billee  was  small  and  slender,  about  twenty  or 
twenty-one,  and  had  a  straight  white  forehead  veined 
with  blue,  large  dark-blue  eyes,  delicate,  regular  feat- 
ures, and  coal-black  hair.  He  was  also  very  graceful 
and  well  built,  with  very  small  hands  and  feet,  and 
much  better  dressed  than  his  friends,  who  went  out 
of  their  way  to  outdo  the  denizens  of  the  quartier 
latin  in  careless  eccentricity  of  garb,  and  succeeded. 
And  in  his  winning  and  handsome  face  there  was  just 
a  faint  suggestion  of  some  possible  very  remote  Jew- 
ish ancestor — just  a  tinge  of  that  strong,  sturdy,  irre- 
pressible, indomitable,  indelible  blood  which  is  of  such 
priceless  value  in  diluted  homoeopathic  doses,  like  the 
dry  white  Spanish  wine  called  montijo,  which  is  not 
meant  to  be  taken  pure;  but  without  a  judicious  ad- 
mixture of  which  no  sherry  can  go  round  the  world 


and  keep  its  flavor  intact ;  or  like  the  famous  bull- 
dog strain,  which  is  not  beautiful  in  itself ;  and  yet 
just  for  lacking  a  little  of  the  same  no  greyhound  can 
ever  hope  to  be  a  champion.  So,  at  least,  I  have  been 
told  by  wine-merchants  and  dog-fanciers — the  most 
veracious  persons  that  can  be.  Fortunately  for  the 
world,  and  especially  for  ourselves,  most  of  us  have 
in  our  veins  at  least  a  minim  of  that  precious  fluid, 
whether  we  know  it  or  show  it  or  not.  Tant  pis  pour 
les  autres  ! 

As  Little  Billee  munched  he  also  gazed  at  the 
busy  place  below  —  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts 
— at  the  old  houses  opposite,  some  of  which  were 
being  pulled  down,  no  doubt 
lest  they  should  fall  of  their 
own  sweet  will.  In  the 
gaps  between  he  would  see 
discolored,  old,  cracked,  din- 
gy walls,  with  mysterious 
windows  and  rusty  iron  bal- 
conies of  great  antiquity — 
sights  that  set  him  dream- 
ing dreams  of  mediaeval 
French  love  and  wickedness 
and  crime,  bygone  mysteries 
of  Paris ! 

One  gap  went  right  through 
the    block,    and    gave    him    a 

glimpse  of  the  river,  the  "  Cite,"  and  the  ominous 
old  Morgue ;  a  little  to  the  right  rose  the  gray  tow- 
ers of  Notre  Dame  de  Paris  into  the  checkered 
April  sky.  Indeed,  the  top  of  nearly  all  Paris  lay 


'THE  THIRD  HE  WAS 
'LITTLE  BILLEE'" 


before  him,  with  a  little  stretch  of  the  imagination 
on  his  part ;  and  he  gazed  with  a  sense  of  novelty,  an 
interest  and  a  pleasure  for  which  he  could  not  have 
found  any  expression  in  mere  language. 

Paris !     Paris ! !     Paris !  1 1 

The  very  name  had  always  been  one  to  conjure  with, 
whether  he  thought  of  it  as  a  mere  sound  on  the  lips 
and  in  the  ear,  or  as  a  magical  written  or  printed 
word  for  the  eye.  And  here  was  the  thing  itself  at 
last,  and  he,  he  himself,  ipsissimus,  in  the  very 
midst  of  it,  to  live  there  and  learn  there  as  long  as 
he  liked,  and  make  himself  the  great  artist  he  longed 
to  be. 

Then,  his  meal  finished,  he  lit  a  pipe,  aud  flung  him- 
self on  the  divan  and  sighed  deeply,  out  of  the  over- 
full contentment  of  his  heart. 

He  felt  he  had  never  known  happiness  like  this, 
never  even  dreamed  its  possibility.  And  yet  his 
life  had  been  a  happy  one.  He  was  young  and 
tender,  was  Little  Billee;  he  had  never  been  to  any 
school,  and  was  innocent  of  the  world  and  its  wicked 
ways ;  innocent  of  French  especially,  and  the  ways  of 
Paris  and  its  Latin  quarter.  He  had  been  brought 
up  and  educated  at  home,  had  spent  his  boyhood 
in  London  with  his  mother  and  sister,  who  now 
lived  in  Devonshire  on  somewhat  straitened  means. 
His  father,  who  was  dead,  had  been  a  clerk  in  the 
Treasury. 

He  and  his  two  friends,  Taffy  and  the  Laird,  had 
taken  this  studio  together.  The  Laird  slept  there,  in  a 
small  bedroom  off  the  studio.  Taffy  had  a  bedroom 
at  the  Hotel  de  Seine,  in  the  street  of  that  name. 


9 


Little  Billee  lodged  at  the  Hotel  Corneille,  in  the 
Place  de  I'Odeon. 

He  looked   at   his  two  friends,  and  wondered  if 
any  one,  living  or  dead,  had  ever  had  such  a  glorious 
pair    of    chums    as 
these. 

"Whatever  they 
did,  whatever  they 
said,  was  simply  per- 
fect in  his  eyes ;  they 
were  his  guides  and 
philosophers  as  well 
as  his  chums.  On 
the  other  hand,  Taf- 
fy and  the  Laird 
were  as  fond  of  the 
boy  as  they  could  be. 

His  absolute  belief 
in  all  they  said  and 
did  touched  them 
none  the  less  that 
they  were  conscious 
of  its  being  some- 
what in  excess  of 
their  deserts.  His 
almost  girlish  purity 
of  mind  amused  and 

charmed  them,  and  they  did  all  they  could  to  preserve 
it,  even  in  the  quartier  latin,  where  purity  is  apt  to  go 
bad  if  it  be  kept  too  long. 

They  loved  him  for  his  affectionate  disposition,  his 
lively  and  caressing  ways ;  and  they  admired  him  far 


"IT   DID   ONE   GOOD   TO   LOOK    AT   HIM1' 


10 

more  than  he  ever  knew,  for  they  recognized  in  him 
a  quickness,  a  keenness,  a  delicacy  of  perception,  in 
matters  of  form  and  color,  a  mysterious  facility  and 
felicity  of  execution,  a  sense  of  all  that  was  sweet  and 
beautiful  in  nature,  and  a  ready  power  of  expressing 
it,  that  had  not  been  vouchsafed  to  them  in  any  such 
generous  profusion,  and  which,  as  they  ungrudgingly 
admitted  to  themselves  and  each  other,  amounted  to 
true  genius. 

And  when  one  within  the  immediate  circle  of  our 
intimates  is  gifted  in  this  abnormal  fashion,  we  either 
hate  or  love  him  for  it,  in  proportion  to  the  greatness 
of  his  gift ;  according  to  the  way  we  are  built. 

So  Taffy  and  the  Laird  loved  Little  Billee — loved 
him  very  much  indeed.  Not  but  what  Little  Billee 
had  his  faults.  For  instance,  he  didn't  interest  him- 
self very  warmly  in  other  people's  pictures.  He  didn't 
seem  to  care  for  the  Laird's  guitar-playing  toreador, 
nor  for  his  serenaded  lady  —  at  all  events,  he  never 
said  anything  about  them,  either  in  praise  or  blame. 
He  looked  at  Taffy's  realisms  (for  Taffy  was  a  realist) 
in  silence,  and  nothing  tries  true  friendship  so  much 
as  silence  of  this  kind. 

But,  then,  to  make  up  for  it,  when  they  all  three 
went  to  the  Louvre,  he  didn't  seem  to  trouble  much 
about  Titian  either,  or  Rembrandt,  or  Velasquez,  Ru- 
bens, Veronese,  or  Leonardo.  He  looked  at  the  people 
who  looked  at  the  pictures,  instead  of  at  the  pictures 
themselves ;  especially  at  the  people  who  copied  them, 
the  sometimes  charming  young  lady  painters  —  and 
these  seemed  to  him  even  more  charming  than  they 
really  were — and  he  looked  a  great  deal  out  of  the 


II 

Louvre  windows,  where  there  was  much  to  be  seen : 
more  Paris,  for  instance  —  Pans,  of  which  he  could 
never  have  enough. 

But  when,  surfeited  with  classical  beauty,  they  all 
three  went  and  dined  together,  and  Taffy  and  the 
Laird  said  beautiful  things  about  the  old  masters,  and 
quarrelled  about  them,  he  listened  with  deference  and 
rapt  attention,  and  reverentially  agreed  with  all  they 
said,  and  afterwards  made  the  most  delightfully  funny 
little  pen-and-ink  sketches  of  them,  saying  all  these 
beautiful  things  (which  he  sent  to  his  mother  and  sis- 
ter at  home) ;  so  life-like,  so  real,  that  you  could  al- 
most hear  the  beautiful  things  they  said ;  so  beauti- 
fully drawn  that  you  felt  the  old  masters  couldn't 
have  drawn  them  better  themselves ;  and  so  irresist- 
ibly droll  that  you  felt  that  the  old  masters  could  not 
have  drawn  them  at  all — any  more  than  Milton  could 
have  described  the  quarrel  between  Sairey  Gamp  and 
Betsy  Prig ;  no  one,  in  short,  but  Little  Billee. 

Little  Billee  took  up  the  "  Ballad  of  the  Bouilla- 
baisse "  where  the  Laird  had  left  it  off,  and  speculated 
on  the  future  of  himself  and  his  friends,  when  he 
should  have  got  to  forty  years — an  almost  impossibly 
remote  future. 

These  speculations  were  interrupted  by  a  loud  knock 
at  the  door,  and  two  men  came  in. 

First,  a  tall,  bony  individual  of  any  age  between 
thirty  and  forty-five,  of  Jewish  aspect,  well-featured 
but  sinister.  He  was  very  shabby  and  dirty,  and  wore 
a  red  beret  and  a  large  velveteen  cloak,  with  a  big 
metal  clasp  at  the  collar.  His  thick,  heavy,  languid, 
lustreless  black  hair  fell  down  behind  his  ears  on  to  his 


12 

shoulders,  in  that  musicianlike  way  that  is  so  offensive 
to  the  normal  Englishman.  He  had  bold,  brilliant 
black  eyes,  with  long,  heavy  lids,  a  thin,  sallow  face, 
and  a  beard  of  burnt -up  black  which  grew  almost 
from  his  under  eyelids ;  and  over  it  his  mustache,  a 
shade  lighter,  fell  in  two  long  spiral  twists.  He  went 
by  the  name  of  Svengali,  and  spoke  fluent  French 
with  a  German  accent,  and  humorous  German  twists 
and  idioms,  and  his  voice  was  very  thin  and  mean  and 
harsh,  and  often  broke  into  a  disagreeable  falsetto. 

His  companion  was  a  little  swarthy  young  man — a 
gypsy,  possibly — much  pitted  with  the  smallpox,  and 
also  very  shabby.  He  had  large,  soft,  affectionate 
brown  eyes,  like  a  King  Charles  spaniel.  He  had 
small,  nervous,  veiny  hands,  with  nails  bitten  down  to 
the  quick,  and  carried  a  fiddle  and  a  fiddlestick  under 
his  arm,  without  a  case,  as  though  he  had  been  play 
ing  in  the  street. 

'*  Ponchour,  mes  enfants,"  said  Svengali.  "  Che  vous 
amene  mon  ami  Checko,  qui  choue  du  fiolon  gomme 
un  anche!" 

Little  Billee,  who  adored  all  "  sweet  musicianers," 
jumped  up  and  made  Gecko  as  warmly  welcome  as 
he  could  in  his  early  French. 

"  Ha !  le  biano !"  exclaimed  Svengali,  flinging  his  red 
beret  on  it,  and  his  cloak  on  the  ground.  "  Ch'espere 
qu'il  est  pon,  et  pien  t'accord  !" 

And  sitting  down  on  the  music  stool,  he  ran  up  and 
down  the  scales  with  that  easy  power,  that  smooth, 
even  crispness  of  touch,  which  reveal  the  master. 

Then  he  fell  to  playing  Chopin's  impromptu  in  A 
flat,  so  beautifully  that  Little  Billee's  heart  went  nig^ 


AMONG   THE    OLD    MASTERS 


14 

to  bursting  with  suppressed  emotion  and  delight.  He 
had  never  heard  any  music  of  Chopin's  before,  noth- 
ing but  British  provincial  home-made  music — melodies 
with  variations,  "  Annie  Laurie,"  "  The  Last  Rose  of 
Summer,"  "  The  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland  ;"  innocent  lit- 
tle motherly  and  sisterly  tinklings,  invented  to  set  the 
company  at  their  ease  on  festive  evenings,  and  make 
all-round  conversation  possible  for  shy  people;  who 
fear  the  unaccompanied  sound  of  their  own  voices,  and 
whose  genial  chatter  always  leaves  off  directly  the 
music  ceases. 

He  never  forgot  that  impromptu,  which  he  was 
destined  to  hear  again  one  day  in  strange  circum- 
stances. 

Then  Svengali  and  Gecko  made  music  together,  di- 
vinely. Little  fragmentary  things,  sometimes  con- 
sisting but  of  a  few  bars,  but  these  bars  of  such  beauty 
and  meaning !  Scraps,  snatches,  short  melodies,  meant 
to  fetch,  to  charm  immediately,  or  to  melt  or  sadden 
or  madden  just  for  a  moment,  and  that  knew  just 
when  to  leave  off — czardas,  gypsy  dances,  Hungarian 
love-plaints,  things  little  known  out  of  eastern  Europe 
in  the  fifties  of  this  century,  till  the  Laird  and  Taffy 
were  almost  as  wild  in  their  enthusiasm  as  Little  Billee 
— a  silent  enthusiasm  too  deep  for  speech.  And  when 
these  two  great  artists  left  off  to  smoke,  the  three 
Britishers  were  too  much  moved  even  for  that,  and 
there  was  a  stillness.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  there  came  a  loud  knuckle-rapping  at  the 
outer  door,  and  a  portentous  voice  of  great  volume, 
and  that  might  almost  have  belonged  to  any  sex  (even 
an  angel's),  uttered  the  British  milkman's  yodel, "  Milk 


15 

below  !"  and  before  any  one  could  say  "  Entrez,"  a 
strange  figure  appeared,  framed  by  the  gloom  of  the 
little  antechamber. 

It  was  the  figure  of  a  very  tall  and  fully  developed 
young  female,  clad  in  the  gray  overcoat  of  a  French 
infantry  soldier,  continued  nethenvards  by  a  short 
striped  petticoat,  beneath  which  were  visible  her  bare 
white  ankles  and  insteps,  and  slim,  straight,  rosy  heels, 
clean  cut  and  smooth  as  the  back  of  a  razor ;  her  toes 
lost  themselves  in  a  huge  pair  of  male  list  slippers, 
which  made  her  drag  her  feet  as  she  walked. 

She  bore  herself  with  easy,  unembarrassed  grace, 
like  a  person  whose  nerves  and  muscles  are  well  in 
tune,  whose  spirits  are  high,  who  has  lived  much  in 
the  atmosphere  of  French  studios,  and  feels  at  home 
in  it. 

This  strange  medley  of  garments  was  surmounted 
by  a  small  bare  head  with  short,  thick,  wavy  brown 
hair,  and  a  very  healthy  young  face,  which  could 
scarcely  be  called  quite  beautiful  at  first  sight,  since 
the  eyes  were  too  wide  apart,  the  mouth  too  large,  the 
chin  too  massive,  the  complexion  a  mass  of  freckles. 
Besides,  you  can  never  tell  how  beautiful  (or  how 
ugly)  a  face  may  be  till  you  have  tried  to  draw  it. 

But  a  small  portion  of  her  neck,  down  by  the  collar- 
bone, which  just  showed  itself  between  the  unbuttoned 
lapels  of  her  military  coat  collar,  was  of  a  delicate 
privetlike  whiteness  that  is  never  to  be  found  on  any 
French  neck,  and  very  few  English  ones.  Also,  she 
had  a  very  fine  brow,  broad  and  low,  with  thick  level 
eyebrows  much  darker  than  her  hair,  a  broad,  bony, 
high  bridge  to  her  short  nose,  and  her  full,  broad 


16 



cheeks  were  beautifully  modelled.  She  would  have 
made  a  singularly  handsome  boy. 

As  the  creature  looked  round  at  the  assembled  com- 
pany and  flashed  her  big  white  teeth  at  them  in  an 
all-embracing  smile  of  uncommon  width  and  quite 
irresistible  sweetness,  simplicity,  and  friendly  trust, 
one  saw  at  a  glance  that  she  was  out  of  the  common 
clever,  simple,  humorous,  honest,  brave,  and  kind,  and 
accustomed  to  be  genially  welcomed  wherever  she 
went.  Then  suddenly  closing  the  door  behind  her, 
dropping  her  smile,  and  looking  wistful  and  sweet, 
with  her  head  on  one  side  and  her  arms  akimbo, 
"Ye're  all  English,  now,  aren't  ye?"  she  exclaimed. 
"  I  heard  the  music,  and  thought  I'd  just  come  in  for 
a  bit,  and  pass  the  time  of  day:  you  don't  mind? 
Trilby,  that's  my  name— Trilby  O'Ferrall." 

She  said  this  in  English,  with  an  accent  half  Scotch 
and  certain  French  intonations,  and  in  a  voice  so  rich 
and  deep  and  full  as  almost  to  suggest  an  incipient 
tenore  robusto ;  and  one  felt  instinctively  that  it  was 
a  real  pity  she  wasn't  a  boy,  she  would  have  made 
such  a  jolly  one. 

"We're  delighted,  on  the  contrary,"  said  Little 
Billee,  and  advanced  a  chair  for  her. 

But  she  said,  "  Oh,  don't  mind  me ;  go  on  with  the 
music,"  and  sat  herself  down  cross-legged  on  the 
model-throne  near  the  piano. 

As  they  still  looked  at  her,  curious  and  half  embar- 
rassed, she  pulled  a  paper  parcel  containing  food  out 
of  one  of  the  coat-pockets,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  I'll  just  take  a  bite,  if  you  don't  object ;  I'm  a 
model,  you  know,  and  it's  just  rung  twelve — '  the  rest.* 


"  WISTFUL    AND    SWEET  " 


18 

Fm  posing  for  Durien  the  sculptor,  on  the  next  floor. 
I  pose  to  him  for  the  altogether." 

*•  The  altogether  ?"  asked  Little  Billee. 

"  Yes — V ensemble,  you  know — head,  hands,  and  feet 
— everything — especially  feet.  That's  my  foot,"  she 
said,  kicking  off  her  big  slipper  and  stretching  out  the 
limb.  "  It's  the  handsomest  foot  in  all  Paris.  There's 
only  one  in  all  Paris  to  match  it,  and  here  it  is,"  and 
she  laughed  heartily  (like  a  merry  peal  of  bells),  and 
stuck  out  the  other. 

And  in  truth  they  were  astonishingly  beautiful  feet, 
such  as  one  only  sees  in  pictures  and  statues — a  true 
inspiration  of  shape  and  color,  all  made  up  of  deli- 
cate lengths  and  subtly  modulated  curves  and  noble 
straightnesses  and  happy  little  dimpled  arrangements 
in  innocent  young  pink  and  white. 

So  that  Little  Billee,  who  had  the  quick,  prehensile, 
aesthetic  eye,  and  knew  by  the  grace  of  Heaven  what 
the  shapes  and  sizes  and  colors  of  almost  every  bit  of 
man,  woman,  or  child  should  be  (and  so  seldom  are), 
was  quite  bewildered  to  find  that  a  real,  bare,  live 
human  foot  could  be  such  a  charming  object  to  look 
at,  and  felt  that  such  a  base  or  pedestal  lent  quite  an 
antique  and  Olympian  dignity  to  a  figure  that  seemed 
just  then  rather  grotesque  in  its  mixed  attire  of  mil- 
itary overcoat  and  female  petticoat,  and  nothing 
else! 

Poor  Trilby ! 

The  shape  of  those  lovely  slender  feet  (that  were 
neither  large  nor  small),  fac-similed  in  dusty,  pale  plas- 
ter of  Paris,  survives  on  the  shelves  and  walls  of 
many  a  studio  throughout  the  world,  and  many  * 


19 

sculptor  yet  unborn  has  yet  to  marvel  at  their  strange 
perfection,  in  studious  despair. 

For  when  Dame  Nature  takes  it  into  her  head  to 
do  her  very  best,  and  bestow  her  minutest  attention 
on  a  mere  detail,  as  happens  now  and  then — once  in  a 
blue  moon,  perhaps  —  she  makes  it  uphill  work  for 
poor  human  art  to  keep  pace  with  her. 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing,  the  human  foot — like  the 
human  hand ;  even  more  so,  perhaps ;  but,  unlike  the 
hand,  with  which  we  are  so  familiar,  it  is  seldom  a 
thing  of  beauty  in  civilized  adults  who  go  about  in 
leather  boots  or  shoes. 

So  that  it  is  hidden  away  in  disgrace,  a  thing  to  be 
thrust  out  of  sight  and  forgotten.  It  can  sometimes 
be  very  ugly,  indeed — the  ugliest  thing  there  is,  even 
in  the  fairest  and  highest  and  most  gifted  of  her  sex ; 
and  then  it  is  of  an  ugliness  to  chill  and  kill  romance, 
and  scatter  young  love's  dream,  and  almost  break  the 
heart. 

And  all  for  the  sake  of  a  high  heel  and  a  ridiculous- 
ly pointed  toe — mean  things,  at  the  "best ! 

Conversely,  when  Mother  Nature  has  taken  extra 
pains  in  the  building  of  it,  and  proper  care  or  happy 
chance  has  kept  it  free  of  lamentable  deformations, 
indurations,  and  discolorations — all  those  grewsome 
boot  -  begotten  abominations  which  have  made  it  so 
generally  unpopular — the  sudden  sight  of  it,  uncov- 
ered, comes  as  a  very  rare  and  singularly  pleasing  sur- 
prise to  the  eye  that  has  learned  how  to  see  ! 

Nothing  else  that  Mother  Nature  has  to  show,  not 
even  the  human  face  divine,  has  more  subtle  power  to 
suggest  high  physical  distinction,  happy  evolution,  and 


20 

supreme  development ;  the  lordship  of  man  over  beast, 
the  lordship  of  man  over  man,  the  lordship  of  woman 
over  all ! 

En  voild,  de  V eloquence — d  propos  de  bottes  ! 

Trilby  had  respected  Mother  Nature's  special  gift  to 
herself — had  never  worn  a  leather  boot  or  shoe,  had 
always  taken  as  much  care  of  her  feet  as  many  a  fine 
lady  takes  of  her  hands.  It  was  her  one  coquetry, 
the  only  real  vanity  she  had. 

Gecko,  his  fiddle  in  one  hand  and  his  bow  in  the 
other,  stared  at  her  in  open-mouthed  admiration  and 
delight,  as  she  ate  her  sandwich  of  soldier's  bread  and 
fromage  d  la  creme  quite  unconcerned. 

When  she  had  finished  she  licked  the  tips  of  her 
fingers  clean  of  cheese,  and  produced  a  small  tobacco- 
pouch  from  another  military  pocket,  and  made  her- 
self a  cigarette,  and  lit  it  and  smoked  it,  inhaling  the 
smoke  in  large  whiffs,  filling  her  lungs  with  it,  and 
sending  it  back  through  her  nostrils,  with  a  look  of 
great  beatitude. 

Svengali  played  Schubert's  "  Rosemonde,"  and  flash- 
ed a  pair  of  languishing  black  eyes  at  her  with  intent 
to  kill. 

But  she  didn't  even  look  his  way.  She  looked  at  Lit- 
tle Billee,  at  big  Taffy,  at  the  Laird,  at  the  casts  and 
studies,  at  the  sky,  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way,  the 
towers  of  Notre  Dame,  just  visible  from  where  she  sat. 

Only  when  he  finished  she  exclaimed:  "Ma'ie,  a'ie! 
c'est  rudement  bien  tape,  c'te  musique-la  !  Seulement, 
c'est  pas  gai,  vous  savez !  Comment  q'ca  s'appelle  ?" 

"  It  is  called  the  '  Rosemonde '  of  Schubert,  mate- 
moiselle,"  replied  Svengali.  (I  will  translate.) 


22 

"  And  what's  that — Rosemonde  ?"  said  she. 

"  Rosernonde  was  a  princess  of  Cyprus,  raatemoiselle, 
and  Cyprus  is  an  island/' 

"  Ah,  and  Schubert,  then — where's  that  ?" 

"  Schubert  is  not  an  island,  materaoiselle.  Schubert 
was  a  compatriot  of  mine,  and  made  music,  and  played 
the  piano,  just  like  me." 

"  Ah,  Schubert  was  a  monsieur,  then.  Don't  know 
him  ;  never  heard  his  name." 

"  That  is  a  pity,  matemoiselle.  He  had  some  talent. 
You  like  this  better,  perhaps,"  and  he  strummed, 

"Messieurs  les  etudiants, 
S'en  vont  a  la  chaumiere 
Pour  y  danser  le  cancan," 

striking  wrong  notes,  and  banging  out  a  bass  in  a  dif- 
ferent key — a  hideously  grotesque  performance. 

"  Yes,  I  like  that  better.  It's  gayer,  you  know.  Is 
that  also  composed  by  a  compatriot  of  yours?"  asked 
the  lady. 

"  Heaven  forbid,  materaoiselle." 

And  the  laugh  was  against  Svengali. 

But  the  real  fun  of  it  all  (if  there  was  any)  lay  in 
the  fact  that  she  was  perfectly  sincere. 

"  Are  you  fond  of  music  ?"  asked  Little  Billee. 

"  Oh,  ain't  I,  just !"  she  replied.  "  My  father  sang 
like  a  bird.  He  was  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar,  my 
father  was.  His  name  was  Patrick  Michael  CTFerrall, 
fellow  of  Trinity,  Cambridge.  He  used  to  sing  '  Ben 
Bolt.'  Do  you  know  '  Ben  Bolt '  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  it  well,"  said  Little  Billee.  "It's 
a  very  pretty  song." 


"  I  caa  sing  it,"  said  Miss  O'Ferrall.     "  ShaU  I  ?" 
"  Oh,  certainly,  if  you  will  be  so  kind." 
Miss  O'Ferrall  threw  away  the  end  of  her  cigarette, 
put  her  hands  on  her  knees  as  she  sat  cross-legged  on 
the  model -throne,  and  sticking  her  elbows  well  out, 
she  looked  up  to  the  ceiling  with  a  tender,  sentimental 
smile,  and  sang  the  touching  song, 

"Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt? 
Sweet  Alice,  with  hair  so  brown  1"  etc.,  etc. 

As  some  things  are  too  sad  and  too  deep  for  tears, 
so  some  things  are  too  grotesque  and  too  funny  for 
laughter.  Of  such  a  kind  was  Miss  O'Ferrall's  per- 
formance of  "  Ben  Bolt." 

From  that  capacious  mouth  and  through  that  high- 
bridged  bony  nose  there  rolled  a  volume  of  breathy 
sound,  not  loud,  but  so  immense  that  it  seemed  to 
come  from  all  round,  to  be  reverberated  from  every 
surface  in  the  studio.  She  followed  more  or  less  the 
shape  of  the  tune,  going  up  when  it  rose  and  down 
when  it  fell,  but  with  such  immense  intervals  between 
the  notes  as  were  never  dreamed  of  in  any  mortal 
melody.  It  was  as  though  she  could  never  once  have 
deviated  into  tune,  never  once  have  hit  upon  a  true 
note,  even  by  a  fluke  —  in  fact,  as  though  she  were 
absolutely  tone-deaf  and  without  ear,  although  she 
stuck  to  the  time  correctly  enough. 

She  finished  her  song  amid  an  embarrassing  silence. 
The  audience  didn't  quite  know  whether  it  were  meant 
for  fun  or  seriously.  One  wondered  if  she  were  not 
paying  out  Svengali  for  his  impertinent  performance 


24 

of  "  Messieurs  les  etudiants."  If  so,  it  was  a  capital 
piece  of  impromptu  tit-for-tat  admirably  acted,  and  a 
very  ugly  gleam  yellowed  the  tawny  black  of  Sven- 
gali's  big  eyes.  He  was  so  fond  of  making  fun  of 
others  that  he  particularly  resented  being  made  fun  of 
himself  —  couldn't  endure  that  any  one  should  ever 
have  the  laugh  of  him. 

At  length  Little  Billee  said :  "  Thank  you  so  much. 
It  is  a  capital  song." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  O'Ferrall.  "It's  the  only  song  I 
know,  unfortunately.  My  father  used  to  sing  it,  just 
like  that,  when  he  felt  jolly  after  hot  rum  and  water. 
It  used  to  make  people  cry ;  he  used  to  cry  over  it 
himself.  7  never  do.  Some  people  think  I  can't  sing 
a  bit.  All  I  can  say  is  that  I've  often  had  to  sing 
it  six  or  seven  times  running  in  lots  of  studios.  I 
vary  it,  you  know — not  the  words,  but  the  tune.  You 
must  remember  that  I've  only  taken  to  it  lately. 
Do  you  know  Litolff  ?  Well,  he's  a  great  composer, 
and  he  came  to  Durien's  the  other  day,  and  I  sang 
'  Ben  Bolt,'  and  what  do  you  think  he  said  ?  Why, 
he  said  Madame  Alboni  couldn't  go  nearly  so  high 
or  so  low  as  I  did.  and  that  her  voice  wasn't  half  so 
strong.  He  gave  me  his  word  of  honor.  He  said  I 
breathed  as  natural  and  straight  as  a  baby,  and  all  I 
want  is  to  get  my  voice  a  little  more  under  control. 
That's  what  he  said." 

"Qu'est-ce  qu'elle  dit?"  asked  Svengali.  And  she 
said  it  all  over  again  to  him  in  French — quite  French 
French — of  the  most  colloquial  kind.  Her  accent  was 
not  that  of  the  Comedie  Franjaise,  nor  yet  that  of  the 
Faubourg  St.  Germain,  nor  yet  that  of  the  pavement. 


26 

It  was  quaint  and  expressive — "  funny  without  being 
vulgar." 

"Barpleu!  he  was  right,  Litolff,"  said  Svengali. 
"  I  assure  you,  matemoiselle,  that  I  have  never  heard 
a  voice  that  can  equal  yours ;  you  have  a  talent  quite 
exceptional." 

She  blushed  with  pleasure,  and  the  others  thought 
him  a  "  beastly  cad  "  for  poking  fun  at  the  poor  girl 
in  such  a  way.  And  they  thought  Moasieur  Litolff 
another. 

She  then  got  up  and  shook  the  crumbs  off  her  coat, 
and  slipped  her  feet  into  Durien's  slippers,  saying,  in 
English :  "  Well,  I've  got  to  go  back.  Life  ain't  all 
beer  and  skittles,  and  more's  the  pity ;  but  what's  the 
odds,  so  long  as  you're  happy  ?" 

On  her  way  out  she  stopped  before  Taffy's  picture 
— a  chiffonnier  with  his  lantern  bending  over  a  dust 
heap.  For  Taffy  was,  or  thought  himself,  a  passion- 
ate realist  in  those  days.  He  has  changed,  and  now 
paints  nothing  but  King  Arthurs  and  Guineveres  and 
Lancelots  and  Elaines  and  floating  Ladies  of  Shalott. 

"  Thatchiffonnier's  basket  isn't  hitched  high  enough," 
she  remarked.  "  How  could  he  tap  his  pick  against 
the  rim  and  make  the  rag  fall  into  it  if  it's  hitched 
only  half-way  up  his  back  ?  And  he's  got  the  wrong 
sabots,  and  the  wrong  lantern  ;  it's  all  wrong." 

"  Dear  me !"  said  Taffy,  turning  very  red ;  "  you 
seem  to  know  a  lot  about  it.  It's  a  pity  you  don't 
paint,  yourself." 

"  Ah !  now  you're  cross !"  said  Miss  O'Ferrall.  "  Oh, 
mai'e,  ai'e !" 

She  went  to  the  door  and  paused,  looking  round 


benignly.  "  What  nice  teeth  you've  all  three  got 
That's  because  you're  Englishmen,  I  suppose,  and 
clean  them  twice  a  day.  I  do  too.  Trilby  O'Ferrall, 
that's  my  name,  48  Rue  des  Pousse-Cailloux !  — pose 
pour  1'ensemble,  quand  ca  1'amuse !  va-t-en  ville,  et  fait 
tout  ce  qui  concerne  son  e"tat !  Don't  forget.  Thanks 
all,  and  good-bye." 

"  En  v'la  une  orichinale,"  said  Svengali. 

"  I  think  she's  lovely,"  said  Little  Billee,  the  young 
and  tender.  "  Oh,  heavens,  what  angel's  feet !  It 
makes  me  sick  to  think  she  sits  for  the  figure.  I'm 
sure  she's  quite  a  lady." 

And  in  five  minutes  or  so,  with  the  point  of  an  old 
compass,  he  scratched  in  white  on  the  dark  red  wall 
a  three-quarter  profile  outline  of  Trilby's  left  foot, 
which  was  perhaps  the  more  perfect  poem  of  the 
two. 

Slight  as  it  was,  this  little  piece  of  impromptu  etch- 
ing, in  its  sense  of  beauty,  in  its  quick  seizing  of  a  pe- 
culiar individuality,  its  subtle  rendering  of  a  strongly 
received  impression,  was  already  the  work  of  a  master. 
It  was  Trilby's  foot,  and  nobody  else's,  nor  could  have 
been,  and  nobody  else  but  Little  Billee  could  have 
drawn  it  in  just  that  inspired  way. 

"  Qu'est-ce  quo  c'est,  '  Ben  Bolt '  ?"  inquired  Gecko. 

Upon  which  Little  Billee  was  made  by  Taffy  to 
sit  down  to  the  piano  and  sing  it.  He  sang  it  very 
nicely  with  his  pleasant  little  throaty  English  bary- 
tone. 

It  was  solely  in  order  that  Little  Billee  should  have 
opportunities  of  practising  this  graceful  accomplish- 
ment of  his,  for  his  own  and  his  friends'  delectation, 


TRILBY'S  LEFT  FOOT 


that  the  piano  had  been  sent  over  from  London,  at 
great  cost  to  Taffy  and  the  Laird.  It  had  belonged  to 
Taffy's  mother,  who  was  dead. 

Before  he  had  finished  the  second  verse,  Svengali 
exclaimed  :  "  Mais  c'est  tout-a-fait  chentil !  Allons, 
Gecko,  chouez-nous  £a !" 

And  he  put  his  big  hands  on  the  piano,  over  Little 
Billee's,  pushed  him  off  the  music-stool  with  his  great 
gaunt  body,  and,  sitting  on  it  himself,  he  played  a 
masterly  prelude.  It  was  impressive  to  hear  the  com 
plicated  richness  and  volume  of  the  sounds  he  evoked 
after  Little  Billee's  gentle  "  tink-a-tink." 

And  Gecko,  cuddling  lovingly  his  violin  and  closing 
his  upturned  eyes,  played  that  simple  melody  as  it  had 
probably  never  been  played  before — such  passion,  such 
pathos,  such  a  tone  ! — and  they  turned  it  and  twisted 
it,  and  went  from  one  key  to  another,  playing  into 
each  other's  hands,  Svengali  taking  the  lead ;  and 
fugued  and  canoned  and  counterpointed  and  battle- 
doored  and  shuttlecocked  it,  high  and  low,  soft  and 
loud,  in  minor,  in  pizzicato,  and  in  sordino — adagio, 
andante,  allegretto,  scherzo  —  and  exhausted  all  its 
possibilities  of  beauty ;  till  their  susceptible  audience 
of  three  was  all  but  crazed  with  delight  and  wonder; 
and  the  masterful  Ben  Bolt,  and  his  over-tender  Alice, 
and  his  too  submissive  friend,  and  his  old  school- 
master so  kind  and  so  true,  and  his  long-dead  school- 
mates, and  the  rustic  porch  and  the  mill,  and  the  slab 
of  granite  so  gray, 

"  And  the  dear  little  nook 
By  the  clear  running  brook," 


29 

were  all  magnified  into  a  strange,  almost  holy  poetic 
dignity  and  splendor  quite  undreamed  of  by  whoever 
wrote  the  words  and  music  of  that  unsophisticated 
little  song,  which  has  touched  so  many  simple  British 
hearts  that  don't  know  any  better — and  among  them, 
once,  that  of  the  present  scribe — long,  long  ago ! 

"  Sacrepleu !  il  choue  pien,  le  Checko,  hein  ?"  said 
Svengali,  when  they  had  brought  this  wonderful 
double  improvisation  to  a  climax  and  a  close.  "  C'est 
mon  elefe !  che  le  fais  chanter  sur  son  fiolon,  c'est 
comme  si  c'etait  moi  qui  chantais !  ach !  si  ch'afais 
pour  teux  sous  de  voix,  che  serais  le  bremier  chanteur 
du  monte!  I  cannot  sing!"  he  continued.  (I  will 
translate  him  into  English,  without  attempting  to 
translate  his  accent,  which  is  a  mere  matter  of  judi- 
ciously transposing  p's  and  b's,  and  t's  and  d's,  and  fs 
and  v's,  and  g's  and  k's,  and  turning  the  soft  French  j 
into  sch,  and  a  pretty  language  into  an  ugly  one.) 

"  I  cannot  sing  myself,  I  cannot  play  the  violin,  but 
I  can  teach — hein,  Gecko  ?  And  I  have  a  pupil — hein, 
Gecko? — la  betite  Honorine;"  and  here  he  leered  all 
round  with  a  leer  that  was  not  engaging.  "  The 
world  shall  hear  of  la  betite  Honorine  some  day— 
hein,  Gecko  ?  Listen  all — this  is  how  I  teach  la  betite 
Honorine !  Gecko,  play  me  a  little  accompaniment  in 
pizzicato." 

And  he  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  kind  of  little  flex- 
ible flageolet  (of  his  own  invention,  it  seems),  which 
he  screwed  together  and  put  to  his  lips,  and  on  this 
humble  instrument  he  played  "  Ben  Bolt,"  while  Gecko 
accompanied  him,  using  his  fiddle  as  a  guitar,  his  ador- 
ing eves  fixed  in  reverence  on  his  master. 


80 

And  it  would  be  impossible  to  render  in  any  words 
the  deftness,  the  distinction,  the  grace,  power,  pathos, 
and  passion  with  which  this  truly  phenomenal  artist 
executed  the  poor  old  twopenny  tune  on  his  elastic 
penny  whistle — for  it  was  little  more — such  thrilling, 
vibrating,  piercing  tenderness,  now  loud  and  full,  a 
shrill  scream  of  anguish,  now  soft  as  a  whisper,  a  mere 
melodic  breath,  more  human  almost  than  the  human 
voice  itself,  a  perfection  unattainable  even  by  Gecko, 
a  master,  on  an  instrument  which  is  the  acknowledged 
king  of  all ! 

So  that  the  tear  which  had  been  so  close  to  the 
brink  of  Little  Billee's  eye  while  Gecko  was  playing 
now  rose  and  trembled  under  his  eyelid  and  spilled 
itself  down  his  nose;  and  he  had  to  dissemble  and 
surreptitiously  mop  it  up  with  his  little  finger  as  he 
leaned  his  chin  on  his  hand,  and  cough  a  little  husky, 
unnatural  cough— pour  se  donner  une  contenance  / 

He  had  never  heard  such  music  as  this,  never 
dreamed  such  music  was  possible.  He  was  conscious, 
while  it  lasted,  that  he  saw  deeper  into  the  beauty, 
the  sadness  of  things,  the  very  heart  of  them,  and 
their  pathetic  evanescence,  as  with  a  new,  inner  eye — 
even  into  eternity  itself,  beyond  the  veil  —  a  vague 
cosmic  vision  that  faded  when  the  music  was  over, 
but  left  an  unfading  reminiscence  of  its  having  been, 
and  a  passionate  desire  to  express  the  like  some  day 
through  the  plastic  medium  of  his  own  beautiful 
art. 

"When  Svengali  ended,  he  leered  again  on  his  dumb- 
struck audience,  and  said :  "  That  is  how  I  teach  la 
betite  Honorine  to  sing;  that  is  how  I  teach  Gecko 


to  play  ;  that  is  how  I  teach  'it  bel  canto1!  It  was 
lost,  the  bel  canto — but  I  found  it,  in  a  dream — I,  and 
nobody  else  —  I  —  S  vengali  — I  —  I  —  //  But  that  is 
enough  of  music ;  let  us  play  at  something  else — let  us 
play  at  this !"  he  cried,  jumping  up  and  seizing  a  foil 
and  bending  it  against  the  wall.  .  .  .  "Come  along, 
Little  Pillee,  and  I  will  show  you  something  more  you 
don't  know.  .  .  ." 

So  Little  Billee  took  off  coat  and  waistcoat,  donned 
mask  and  glove  and  fencing-shoes,  and  they  had  an 
"  assault  of  arms,"  as  it  is  nobly  called  in  French,  and 
in  which  poor  Little  Billee  came  off  very  badly.  The 
German  Pole  fenced  wildly,  but  well. 

Then  it  was  the  Laird's  turn,  and  he  came  off  badly 
too ;  so  then  Taffy  took  up  the  foil,  and  redeemed  the 
honor  of  Great  Britain,  as  became  a  British  hussar 
and  a  Man  of  Blood.  For  Taffy,  by  long  and  assidu- 
ous practice  in  the  best  school  in  Paris  (and  also  by 
virtue  of  his  native  aptitudes),  was  a  match  for  any 
maitre  d'armes  in  the  whole  French  army,  and  Sven- 
gali  got  "  what  for." 

And  when  it  was  time  to  give  up  play  and  settle 
down  to  work,  others  dropped  in  —  French,  English, 
Swiss,  German,  American,  Greek ;  curtains  were  drawn 
and  shutters  opened;  the  studio  was  flooded  with 
light — and  the  afternoon  was  healthily  spent  in  ath- 
letic and  gymnastic  exercises  till  dinner-time. 

But  Little  Billee,  who  had  had  enough  of  fencing 
and  gymnastics  for  the  day,  amused  himself  by  filling 
up  with  black  and  white  and  red  chalk  -  strokes  the 
outline  of  Trilby's  foot  on  the  wall,  lest  he  should  for- 
get his  fresh  vision  of  it,  which  was  still  to  him  as  the 


thing  itself — an  absolute  reality,  born  of  a  mere  glance, 
a  mere  chance. 

Durien  came  in  and  looked  over  his  shoulder,  and 
exclaimed :  "  Tiens !  le  pied  de  Trilby !  vous  avez  fait 
§a  d'apres  nature  ?" 

"Nong!" 

"De  memoire,  alors?" 

"Wee!" 

"  Je  vous  en  fais  mon  compliment !  Yous  avez  eu 
la  main  heureuse.  Je  voudrais  bien  avoir  fait  pa,  moi ! 
C'est  un  petit  chef-d'ceuvre  que  vous  avez  fait  la — tout 
bonnement,  mon  cher !  Mais  vous  elaborez  trop.  De 
grace,  n'y  touchez  plus  !" 

And  Little  Billee  was  pleased,  and  touched  it  no 
more ;  for  Durien  was  a  great  sculptor,  and  sincerity 
itself. 

And  then — well,  I  happen  to  forget  what  sort  of 
day  this  particular  day  turned  into  at  about  six  of 
the  clock. 

If  it  was  decently  fine,  the  most  of  them  went  off 
to  dine  at  the  Restaurant  de  la  Couronne,  kept  by 
the  Pere  Trin,  in  the  Rue  de  Monsieur,  who  gave 
you  of  his  best  to  eat  and  drink  for  twenty  sols 
Parisis,  or  one  franc  in  the  coin  of  the  empire.  Good 
distending  soups,  omelets  that  were  only  too  savory, 
lentils,  red  and  white  beans,  meat  so  dressed  and 
sauced  and  seasoned  that  you  didn't  know  whether  it 
were  beef  or  mutton — flesh,  fowl,  or  good  red  herring — 
or  even  bad,  for  that  matter — nor  very  greatly  care. 

And  just  the  same  lettuce,  radishes,  and  cheese  of 
Gruyere  or  Brie  as  you  got  at  the  Trois  Freres  Pro- 


84 


ven^aux  (but  not  the  same  butter!).  And  to  wash 
it  all  down,  generous  wine  in  wooden  "brocs" — that 
stained  a  lovely  aesthetic  blue  everything  it  was 
epilled  over. 

And  you  hobnobbed  with  models,  male  and  female, 
students  of  law  and  medicine,  painters  and  sculptors, 


workmen  and  blanchis- 
seuses    and     grisettes, 


THK    BRIDGE   OF    ARTS 


and  found  them  very 
good  company,  and 
most  improving  to 
your  French,  if  your 

French  was  of  the  usual  British  kind,  and  even  to 
some  of  your  manners,  if  these  were  very  British  in- 
deed. And  the  evening  was  innocently  wound  up 
with  billiards,  cards,  or  dominos  at  the  Cafe  du  Lux- 
embourg opposite ;  or  at  the  Theatre  du  Luxembourg, 
in  the  Rue  de  Madame,  to  see  funny  farces  with 
screamingly  droll  Englishmen  in  them ;  or,  still  bet- 
ter, at  the  Jardin  Bullicr  (la  Closerie  des  Lilas),  to 


86 

see  the  students  dance  the  cancan,  or  try  and  dance 
it  yourself,  which  is  not  so  easy  as  it  seerns ;  or,  best 
of  all,  at  the  Theatre  de  1'Odeon,  to  see  some  piece  of 
classical  repertoire. 

Or,  if  it  were  not  only  fine,  but  a  Saturday  after- 
noon into  the  bargain,  the  Laird  would  put  on  a  neck- 
tie and  a  few  other  necessary  things,  and  the  three 
friends  would  walk  arm  in  arm  to  Taffy's  hotel  in  the 
Kue  de  Seine,  and  wait  outside  till  he  had  made  him- 
self as  presentable  as  the  Laird,  which  did  not  take 
very  long.  And  then  (Little  Billee  was  always  pre- 
sentable) they  would,  arm  in  arm,  the  huge  Taffy  in 
the  middle,  descend  the  Rue  de  Seine  and  cross  a 
bridge  to  the  Cite,  and  have  a  look  in  at  the  Morgue. 
Then  back  again  to  the  quays  on  the  rive  gauche  by 
the  Pont  Neuf,  to  wend  their  way  westward  ;  now  on 
one  side  to  look  at  the  print  and  picture  shops  and 
the  magasins  of  bric-a-brac,  and  haply  sometimes  buy 
thereof,  now  on  the  other  to  finger  and  cheapen  the 
&econd-hand  books  for  sale  on  the  parapet,  and  even 
pick  up  one  or  two  utterly  unwanted  bargains,  never 
to  be  read  or  opened  again. 

When  they  reached  the  Pont  des  Arts  they  would 
cross  it,  stopping  in  the  middle  to  look  up  the  river 
towards  the  old  Cite  and  Notre  Dame,  eastward,  and 
dream  unutterable  things,  and  try  to  utter  them. 
Then,  turning  westward,  they  would  gaze  at  the  glow- 
ing sky  and  all  it  glowed  upon — the  corner  of  the  Tui- 
leries  and  the  Louvre,  the  many  bridges,  the  Chamber 
of  Deputies,  the  golden  river  narrowing  its  perspec- 
tive and  broadening  its  bed  as  it  went  flowing  and 
winding  on  its  way  between  Passy  and  Grenelle  to 


St.  Cloud,  to  Rouen,  to  the  Havre,  to  England  per- 
haps  —  where  they  didn't  want  to  be  just  then;  and 
they  would  try  and  express  themselves  to  the  effect 
that  life  was  uncommonly  well  worth  living  in  that 
particular  city  at  that  particular  time  of  the  day  and 
year  and  century,  at  that  particular  epoch  of  their 
own  mortal  and  uncertain  lives. 

Then,  still  arm  in  arm  and  chatting  gayly,  across 
the  court- yard  of  the  Louvre,  through  gilded  gates 
wrell  guarded  by  reckless  imperial  Zouaves,  up  the  ar- 
caded  Rue  de  Rivoli  as  far  as  the  Rue  Castiglione, 
where  they  would  stare  with  greedy  eyes  at  the  win- 
dow of  the  great  corner  pastry-cook,  and  marvel  at 
the  beautiful  assortment  of  bonbons,  pralines,  dragees, 
marrons  glaces — saccharine,  crystalline  substances  of 
all  kinds  and  colors,  as  charming  to  look  at  as  an  il- 
lumination ;  precious  stones,  delicately  frosted  sweets, 
pearls  and  diamonds  so  arranged  as  to  melt  in  the 
mouth ;  especially,  at  this  particular  time  of  the 
year,  the  monstrous  Easter -eggs  of  enchanting  hue, 
enshrined  like  costly  jewels  in  caskets  of  satin  and 
gold  ;  and  the  Laird,  who  was  well  read  in  his  English 
classics  and  liked  to  show  it,  would  opine  that  "  they 
managed  these  things  better  in  France." 

Then  across  the  street  by  a  great  gate  into  the  Allee 
des  Feuillants,  and  up  to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde — 
to  gaze,  but  quite  without  base  envy,  at  the  smart  peo- 
ple coming  back  from  the  Bois  de  Boulogne.  For 
even  in  Paris  "carriage  people"  have  a  way  of  look- 
ing bored,  of  taking  their  pleasure  sadly,  of  having 
nothing  to  say  to  each  other,  as  though  the  vibration 
of  so  many  wheels  all  rolling  home  the  same  wav 


37 

every  afternoon  had  hypnotized  them  into  silence, 
idiocy,  and  melancholia. 

And  our  three  musketeers  of  the  brush  would  spec- 
ulate on  the  vanity  of  wealth  and  rank  and  fashion; 
on  the  satiety  that  follows  in  the  wake  of  self-indul- 
gence and  overtakes  it ;  on  the  weariness  of  the  pleas- 
ures that  become  a  toil — as  if  they  knew  all  about  it. 
had  found  it  all  out  for  themselves,  and  nobody  else 
had  ever  found  it  out  before! 

Then  they  found  out  something  else — namely,  that 
the  sting  of  healthy  appetite  was  becoming  intoler- 
able ;  so  they  would  betake  themselves  to  an  English 
eating-house  in  the  Eue  de  la  Madeleine  (on  the  left- 
hand  side  near  the  top),  where  they  would  renovate 
their  strength  and  their  patriotism  on  British  beef  and 
beer,  and  household  bread,  and  bracing,  biting,  sting- 
ing yellow  mustard,  and  horseradish,  and  noble  apple- 
pie,  and  Cheshire  cheese ;  and  get  through  as  much 
of  these  in  an  hour  or  so  as  they  could  for  talking, 
talking,  talking ;  such  happy  talk !  as  full  of  sanguine 
hope  and  enthusiasm,  of  cocksure  commendation  or 
condemnation  of  all  painters,  dead  or  alive,  of  modest 
but  firm  belief  in  themselves  and  each  other,  as  a 
Paris  Easter-egg  is  full  of  sweets  and  pleasantness  (for 
the  young). 

And  then  a  stroll  on  the  crowded,  well -lighted 
boulevards,  and  a  bock  at  the  cafe  there,  at  a  lit- 
tle three-legged  marble  table  right  out  on  the  gen^ 
ial  asphalt  pavement,  still  talking  nineteen  to  the 
dozen. 

Then  home  by  dark,  old,  silent  streets  and  some 
deserted  bridge  to  their  beloved  Latin  quarter,  the 


88 

Morgue  gleaming  cold  and  still  and  fatal  in  the  pale 
lamplight,  and  Notre  Dame  pricking  up  its  watchful 
twin  towers,  which  have  looked  down  for  so  many 
centuries  on  so  many  happy,  sanguine,  expansive 
youths  walking  arm  in  arm  by  twos  and  threes,  and 
forever  talking,  talking,  talking.  .  .  . 

The  Laird  and  Little  Billee  would  see  Taffy  safe 
to  the  door  of  his  hotel  garni  in  the  Rue  de  Seine, 
where  they  would  find  much  to  say  to  each  other  be- 
fore they  said  good -night — so  much  that  Taffy  and 
Little  Billee  would  see  the  Laird  safe  to  his  door,  in 
the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts.  And  then  a  discus- 
sion would  arise  between  Taffy  and  the  Laird  on  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  let  us  say,  or  the  exact  mean- 
ing of  the  word  "gentleman,"  or  the  relative  merits 
of  Dickens  and  Thackeray,  or  some  such  recondite  and 
quite  unhackneyed  theme,  and  Taffy  and  the  Laird 
would  escort  Little  Billee  to  his  door,  in  the  Place  de 
1'Odeon,  and  he  would  re-escort  them  both  back  again, 
and  so  on  till  any  hour  you  please. 

Or  again,  if  it  rained,  and  Paris  through  the  studio 
window  loomed  lead-colored,  with  its  shiny  slate  roofs 
under  skies  that  were  ashen  and  sober,  and  the  wild 
west  wind  made  woful  music  among  the  chimney-pots, 
and  little  gray  waves  ran  up  the  river  the  wrong  way, 
and  the  Morgue  looked  chill  and  dark  and  wet,  and 
almost  uninviting  (even  to  three  healthy-minded  young 
Britons),  they  would  resolve  to  dine  and  spend  a  hap- 
py evening  at  home. 

Little  Billee,  taking  with  him  three  francs  (or  even 
four),  would  dive  into  back  streets  and  buy  a  yard  or 


'THREE   MUSKETEERS  OF  THE  BRUSH1 


40 

so  of  crusty  new  bread,  well  burned  on  the  flat  side, 
a  fillet  of  beef,  a  litre  of  wine,  potatoes  and  onions, 
butter,  a  little  cylindrical  cheese  called  "  bondon  de 
Neufchatel,"  tender  curly  lettuce,  with  chervil,  parsley, 
spring  onions,  and  other  fine  herbs,  and  a  pod  of  gar- 
lic, which  would  be  rubbed  on  a  crust  of  bread  to  flavor 
things  with. 

Taffy  would  lay  the  cloth  Englishwise,  and  also 
make  the  salad,  for  which,  like  everybody  else  I  ever 
met,  he  had  a  special  receipt  of  his  own  (putting  in 
the  oil  first  and  the  vinegar  after);  and  indeed  his 
salads  were  quite  as  good  as  everybody  else's. 

The  Laird,  bending  over  the  stove,  would  cook  the 
onions  and  beef  into  a  savory  Scotch  mess  so  cunning- 
ly that  you  could  not  taste  the  beef  for  the  onions — 
nor  always  the  onions  for  the  garlic ! 

And  they  would  dine  far  better  than  at  le  Pere 
Trin's,  far  better  than  at  the  English  Restaurant  in 
the  Rue  de  la  Madeleine — better  than  anywhere  else 
on  earth ! 

And  after  dinner,  -what  coffee,  roasted  and  ground 
on  the  spot,  what  pipes  and  cigarettes  of  "  caporal," 
by  the  light  of  the  three  shaded  lamps,  while  the  rain 
beat  against  the  big  north  window,  and  the  wind  went 
howling  round  the  quaint  old  mediaeval  tower  at  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  Vieille  des  Mauvais  Ladres  (the  old 
street  of  the  bad  lepers),  and  the  damp  logs  hissed  and 
crackled  in  the  stove ! 

What  jolly  talk  into  the  small  hours !  Thackeray 
and  Dickens  again,  and  Tennyson  and  Byron  (who 
was  u  not  dead  yet "  in  those  days) ;  and  Titian  and 
Velasquez,  and  young  Millais  and  Ilolman  Hunt  (just 


41 

out);  and  Monsieur  Ingres  and  Monsieur  Delacroix, 
and  Balzac  and  Stendahl  and  George  Sand ;  and  the 
good  Dumas!  and  Edgar  Allan  Poe;  and  the  glory 
that  was  Greece  and  the  grandeur  that  was  Kome.  .  .  . 

Good,  honest,  innocent,  artless  prattle — not  of  the 
wisest,  perhaps,  nor  redolent  of  the  very  highest  cult- 
ure (which,  by-the-way,  can  mar  as  well  as  make),  nor 
leading  to  any  very  practical  result ;  but  quite  pathet- 
ically sweet  from  the  sincerity  and  fervor  of  its  con- 
victions, a  profound  belief  in  their  importance,  and  a 
proud  trust  in  their  life-long  immutability. 

Oh,  happy  days  and  happy  nights,  sacred  to  art  and 
friendship !  oh,  happy  times  of  careless  impecuniosity, 
and  youth  and  hope  and  health  and  strength  and  free- 
dom— with  all  Paris  for  a  playground,  and  its  dear  old 
unregenerate  Latin  quarter  for  a  workshop  and  a  home ! 

And,  up  to  then,  no  kill-joy  complications  of  love ! 

No,  decidedly  no!  Little  Billee  had  never  known 
such  happiness  as  this — never  even  dreamed  of  its  pos- 
sibility. 

A  day  or  two  after  this,  our  opening  day,  but  in  the 
afternoon,  when  the  fencing  and  boxing  had  begun 
and  the  trapeze  was  in  full  swing,  Trilby's  "  Milk  be- 
low!" was  sounded  at  the  door,  and  she  appeared — 
clothed  this  time  in  her  right  mind,  as  it  seemed :  a 
tall,  straight,  flat-backed,  square-shouldered,  deep-chest- 
ed, full-bosomed  young  grisette,  in  a  snowy  frilled  cap, 
a  neat  black  gown  and  white  apron,  pretty  faded,  well- 
darned,  brown  stockings,  and  well-worn,  soft,  gray, 
square-toed  slippers  of  list,  without  heels  and  origi- 
nally shapeless ;  but  which  her  feet,  uncompromising 


43 

and  inexorable  as  boot-trees,  had  ennobled  into  ever- 
lasting classic  shapeliness,  and  stamped  with  an  un- 
forgettable individuality,  as  does  a  beautiful  hand  its 
well-worn  glove — a  fact  Little  Billee  was  not  slow  to 
perceive,  with  a  curious  conscious  thrill  that  was  only 
half  aesthetic. 

Then  he  looked  into  her  freckled  face,  and  met  the 
kind  and  tender  mirthfulness  of  her  gaze  and  the 
plucky  frankness  of  her  fine  wide  smile  with  a  thrill 
that  was  not  aesthetic  at  all  (nor  the  reverse),  but  all 
of  the  heart.  And  in  one  of  his  quick  flashes  of  intui- 
tive insight  he  divined  far  down  beneath  the  shining 
surface  of  those  eyes  (which  seemed  for  a  moment  to 
reflect  only  a  little  image  of  himself  against  the  sky 
beyond  the  big  north  window)  a  well  of  sweetness; 
and  floating  somewhere  in  the  midst  of  it  the  very 
heart  of  compassion,  generosity,  and  warm  sisterly 
love;  and  under  that — alas!  at  the  bottom  of  all — a 
thin  slimy  layer  of  sorrow  and  shame.  And  just  as 
long  as  it  takes  for  a  tear  to  rise  and  gather  and  choke 
itself  back  again,  this  sudden  revelation  shook  his  ner- 
vous little  frame  with  a  pang  of  pity,  and  the  knightly 
wish  to  help.  But  he  had  no  time  to  indulge  in  such 
aoft  emotions.  Trilby  was  met  on  her  entrance  by 
friendly  greetings  on  all  sides. 

"Tiens!  c'est  la  grande  Trilby!"  exclaimed  Jules 
Guinot  through  his  fencing-mask.  "Comment!  t'es 
de" ja  debout  apres  heir  soir  ?  Avons-nous  assez  rigole 
chez  Mathieu,  hein  ?  Crenom  d'un  nom,  quelle  noce ! 
Via  une  cremaillere  qui  peut  se  vanter  d'etre  dian- 
trement  bien  pendue,  j'espere !  Et  la  petite  sante,  c' 
matin  ?" 


48 


"  He",  he" !  mon  vieux,"  answered  Trilby.  "  Qa  bou- 
lotte,  apparemment !  Et  toi  ?  et  Victorine  ?  Comment 
qu'a  s'  porte  a  c't'heure  ?  Elle  avait  un  fier  coup  d'chas- 
selas!  c'est-y  jobard,  hein?  de  s'  fich  'paf  comme  ca 
d'vant  1'  monde !  Tiens,  v'la,  Gontran !  £a  marche-t-y, 
Gontran,  Zouzou  d'  mon 
coeur  ?" 

"  Comme  sur  des  roulettes, 
ma  biche!"  said  Gontran, 
alias  V  Zouzou  —  a  corporal 
in  the  Zouaves.  "  Mais  tu 
t'es  done  mise  chiffonniere, 
a  present?  T'as  fait  ban- 
queroute  ?" 

(For  Trilby  had  a  chiffon- 
nier's  basket  strapped  on  her 
back,  and  carried  a  pick  and 
lantern.) 

"  Mais-z-oui,  mon  bon  !" 
she  said.  "Dame!  pas  d' 
veine  hier  soir!  t'as  bien  vu ! 
Dans  la  deche  jusqu'aux  om- 
oplates,  mon  pauv'  caporal- 
sous-off!  nom  d'un  canon — 
faut  bien  vivre,  s'  pas?" 

Little  Billee's  heart  sluices 
had  closed  during  this  inter- 
change   of     courtesies.       He  TAFFY  MAKES  THE  SALAD 
felt  it  to  be  of  a  very  slangy 

kind,  because  he  couldn't  understand  a  word  of  it, 
and  he  hated  slang.  All  he  could  make  out  was 
the  free  use  of  the  "  tu  "  and  the  "  toi,"  and  he  knew 


44 

enough  French  to  know  that  this  implied  a  great 
familiarity,  which  he  misunderstood. 

So  that  Jules  Guinot's  polite  inquiries  whether  Trilby 
were  none  the  worse  after  Mathieu's  house-warming 
(which  was  so  jolly),  Trilby's  kind  solicitude  about 
the  health  of  Victorine,  who  had  very  foolishly  taken 
a  drop  too  much  on  that  occasion,  Trilby's  mock  re- 
grets that  her  own  bad  luck  at  cards  had  made  it 
necessary  that  she  should  retrieve  her  fallen  fortunes 
by  rag-picking — all  these  innocent,  playful  little  amen- 
ities (which  I  have  tried  to  write  down  just  as  they 
were  spoken)  were  couched  in  a  language  that  was  as 
Greek  to  him — and  he  felt  out  of  it,  jealous  and  in- 
dignant. 

"  Good-afternoon  to  you,  Mr.  Taffy,"  said  Trilby,  in 
English.  "I've  brought  you  these  objects  of  art  and 
virtu  to  make  the  peace  with  you.  They're  the  real 
thing,  you  know.  I  borrowed  'em  from  le  pere  Mar- 
tin, chiffonnier  en  gros  et  en  detail,  grand  officier  de 
la  Legion  d'Honneur,  membre  de  1'Institut,  et  cetera, 
treize  bis,  Hue  du  Puits  d' Amour,  rez-de-chaussee,  au 
fond  de  la  cour  a  gauche,  vis-a-vis  le  mont-de-piete ! 
He's  one  of  my  intimate  friends,  and — " 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  the  intimate  friend 
of  a  rag-picker  ?"  exclaimed  the  good  Taffy. 

"  Oh  yes !  Pourquoi  pas  ?  I  never  brag ;  besides, 
there  ain't  any  beastly  pride  about  le  pere  Martin," 
said  Trilby,  with  a  wink.  "  You'd  soon  find  that  out 
if  you  were  an  intimate  friend  of  his.  This  is  how  it's 
put  on.  Do  you  see  ?  If  yov?\\  put  it  on,  I'll  fasten  it 
for  you,  and  show  you  how  to  hold  the  lantern  and 
handle  the  pick.  You  may  come  to  it  yourself  some 


45 

day,  you  know.  II  ne  faut  jurer  de  rien !  Pere  Mar- 
tin will  pose  for  you  in  person,  if  you  like.  He's  gen- 
erally disengaged  in  the  afternoon.  He's  poor  but 
honest,  you  know,  and  very  nice  and  clean  ;  quite  the 
gentleman.  He  likes  artists,  especially  English — they 
pay.  His  wife  sells  brie  -  d  -  brae  and  old  masters  : 
Rembrandts  from  two  francs  fifty  upwards.  They've 
got  a  little  grandson — a  love  of  a  child.  I'm.  his  god- 
mother. You  know  French,  I  suppose?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Taffy,  much  abashed.  "I'm  very 
much  obliged  to  you — very  much  indeed — a — I — a — " 

"  Y  a  pas  d'  quoi !"  said  Trilby,  divesting  herself  of 
her  basket  and  putting  it,  with  the  pick  and  lantern, 
in  a  corner.  "Et  maintenant,  le  temps  d'absorber 
une  fine  de  fin  sec  [a  cigarette]  et  je  m'  la  brise  [I'm 
off].  On  m'attend  £  1'Ambassade  d'Autriche.  Et 
puis  zut!  Allez  tou jours,  mes  enfants.  En  avant 
la  boxe !" 

She  sat  herself  down  cross-legged  on  the  model- 
throne,  and  made  herself  a  cigarette,  and  watched  the 
fencing  and  boxing.  Little  Billee  brought  her  a  chair, 
which  she  refused ;  so  he  sat  down  on  it  himself  by  her 
side,  and  talked  to  her,  just  as  he  would  have  talked 
to  any  young  lady  at  home — about  the  weather,  about 
Yerdi's  new  opera  (which  she  had  never  heard),  the 
impressiveness  of  Notre  Dame,  and  Yictor  Hugo's 
beautiful  romance  (which  she  had  never  read),  the 
mysterious  charm  of  Leonardo  da  Yinci's  Lisa  Gio- 
conda's  smile  (which  she  had  never  seen) — by  all  of 
which  she  was  no  doubt  rather  tickled  and  a  little  em- 
barrassed, perhaps  also  a  little  touched. 

Taffy  brought  her  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  conversed 


40 

with  her  in  polite  formal  French,  very  well  and  care- 
fully pronounced ;  and  the  Laird  tried  to  do  likewise. 
Ilia  French  was  of  that  honest  English  kind  that 
breaks  up  the  stiffness  of  even  an  English  party ;  and 
his  jolly  manners  were  such  as  to  put  an  end  to  all 
shyness  and  constraint,  and  make  self -consciousness 
impossible. 

Others  dropped  in  from  neighboring  studios — the 
usual  cosmopolite  crew.  It  was  a  perpetual  come 
and  go  in  this  particular  studio  between  four  and  six 
in  the  afternoon. 

There  were  ladies,  too,  en  cheveux,  in  caps  and  bon- 
nets, some  of  whom  knew  Trilby,  and  thee'd  and 
thou'd  with  familiar  and  friendly  affection,  while  others 
mademoiselle'd  her  with  distant  politeness,  and  were 
mademoiselle'd  and  madame'd  back  again.  "  Absolu- 
ment  comme  a  1'Ambassade  d'Autriche,"  as  Trilby  ob- 
served to  the  Laird,  with  a  British  wink  that  was  by 
no  means  ambassadorial. 

Then  Svengali  came  and  made  some  of  his  grandest 
music,  which  was  as  completely  thrown  away  on 
Trilby  as  fireworks  on  a  blind  beggar,  for  all  she 
held  her  tongue  so  piously. 

Fencing  and  boxing  and  trapezing  seemed  to  be 
more  in  her  line ;  and  indeed,  to  a  tone-deaf  person, 
Taffy  lunging  his  full  spread  with  a  foil,  in  all  the 
splendor  of  his  long,  lithe,  youthful  strength,  was  a  far 
gainlier  sight  than  Svengali  at  the  key-board  flashing 
his  languid  bold  eyes  with  a  sickly  smile  from  one 
listener  to  another,  as  if  to  say  :  "  N'est-ce  pas  que  che 
suis  peau  !  N'est-ce  pas  que  ch'ai  tu  chenie  ?  N'est-ce 
pas  que  che  suis  suplime,  enfin  ?'' 


48 

Then  enter  Durien  the  sculptor,  who  had  been  pre- 
sented with  a  baignoire  at  the  Porte  St.  Martin  to  see 
"La  Dame  aux  Came:lias,"  and  he  invited  Trilby  and 
another  lady  to  dine  with  him  "au  cabaret"  and 
share  his  box. 

So  Trilby  didn't  go  to  the  Austrian  embassy  after 
all,  as  the  Laird  observed  to  Little  Billee,  with  such  a 
good  imitation  of  her  wink  that  Little  Billee  was  bound 
to  laugh. 

But  Little  Billee  was  not  inclined  for  fun ;  a  dul- 
ness,  a  sense  of  disenchantment,  had  come  over  him ; 
as  he  expressed  it  to  himself,  with  pathetic  self-pity : 

"A  feeling  of  sadness  and  longing 

That  is  not  akin  to  pain, 
And  resembles  sorrow  only 
As  the  mist  resembles  the  rain." 

And  the  sadness,  if  he  had  known,  was  that  all  beau- 
tiful young  women  with  kind  sweet  faces  and  noble 
figures  and  goddess-like  extremities  should  not  be  good 
and  pure  as  they  were  beautiful ;  and  the  longing  was 
a  longing  that  Trilby  could  be  turned  into  a  young 
lady — say  the  vicar's  daughter  in  a  little  Devonshire 
village — his  sister's  friend  and  co-teacher  at  the  Sun- 
day-school ;  a  simple,  pure,  and  pious  maiden  of  gentle 
birth. 

For  he  adored  piety  in  woman,  although  he  was  not 
pious  by  any  means.  His  inarticulate,  intuitive  per- 
ceptions were  not  of  form  and  color  secrets  only,  but 
strove  to  pierce  the  veil  of  deeper  mysteries  in  impetu- 
ous and  dogmatic  boyish  scorn  of  all  received  interpre- 
tations. For  he  flattered  himself  that  he  possessed  the 


49 

philosophical  and  scientific  mind,  and  piqued  himself 
on  thinking  clearly,  and  was  intolerant  of  human  in- 
consistency. 

That  small  reserve  portion  of  his  ever-active  brain 
which  should  have  lain  fallow  while  the  rest  of  it  was 
at  work  or  play,  perpetually  plagued  itself  about  the 
mysteries  of  life  and  death,  and  was  forever  propound- 
ing unanswerable  arguments  against  the  Christian  be- 
lief, through  a  kind  of  inverted  sympathy  with  the 
believer.  Fortunately  for  his  friends,  Little  Billee 
was  both  shy  and  discreet,  and  very  tender  of  other 
people's  feelings ;  so  he  kept  all  his  immature  juvenile 
agnosticism  to  himself. 

To  atone  for  such  ungainly  strong-mindedness  in  one 
so  young  and  tender,  he  was  the  slave  of  many  little 
traditional  observances  which  have  no  very  solid  foun- 
dation in  either  science  or  philosophy.  For  instance, 
he  wouldn't  walk  under  a  ladder  for  worlds,  nor  sit 
down  thirteen  to  dinner,  nor  have  his  hair  cut  on  a 
Friday,  and  was  quite  upset  if  he  happened  to  see  the 
new  moon  through  glass.  And  he  believed  in  lucky 
and  unlucky  numbers,  and  dearly  loved  the  sights 
and  scents  and  sounds  of  high -mass  in  some  dim  old 
French  cathedral,  and  found  them  secretly  comforting. 

Let  us  hope  that  he  sometimes  laughed  at  himself, 
if  only  in  his  sleeve ! 

And  with  all  his  keenness  of  insight  into  life  he  had 
a  well-brought-up,  middle -class  young  Englishman's 
belief  in  the  infallible  efficacy  of  gentle  birth  —  for 
gentle  he  considered  his  own  and  Taffy's  and  the 
Laird's,  and  that  of  most  of  the  good  people  he  had 
lived  among  in  England — all  people,  in  short,  whose 


50 

two  parents  and  four  grandparents  had  received  a 
liberal  education  and  belonged  to  the  professional 
class.  And  with  this  belief  he  combined  (or  thought 
he  did)  a  proper  democratic  scorn  for  bloated  dukes 
and  lords,  and  even  poor  inoffensive  baronets,  and  all 
the  landed  gentry — everybody  who  was  born  an  inch 
higher  up  than  himself. 

It  is  a  fairly  good  middle-class  social  creed,  if  you 
can  only  stick  to  it  through  life  in  despite  of  life's  ex- 
perience. It  fosters  independence  and  self-respect, 
and  not  a  few  stodgy  practical  virtues  as  well.  At 
all  events,  it  keeps  you  out  of  bad  company,  which  is 
to  be  found  both  above  and  below. 

And  all  this  melancholy  preoccupation,  on  Little 
Billee's  part,  from  the  momentary  gleam  and  dazzle 
of  a  pair  of  over-perfect  feet  in  an  over-aesthetic  eye, 
too  much  enamoured  of  mere  form  ! 

Reversing  the  usual  process,  he  had  idealized  from 
the  base  upward ! 

Many  of  us,  older  and  wiser  than  Little  Billee,  have 
seen  in  lovely  female  shapes  the  outer  garment  of 
a  lovely  female  soul.  The  instinct  which  guides  us 
to  do  this  is,  perhaps,  a  right  one,  more  often  than 
not.  But  more  often  than  not,  also,  lovely  female 
shapes  are  terrible  complicators  of  the  difficulties  and 
dangers  of  this  earthly  life,  especially  for  their  owner, 
and  more  especially  if  she  be  a  humble  daughter  of 
the  people,  poor  and  ignorant,  of  a  yielding  nature, 
too  quick  to  love  and  trust.  This  is  all  so  true  as  to 
be  trite — so  trite  as  to  be  a  common  platitude ! 

A  modern  teller  of  tales,  most  widely  (and  most 
justly)  popular,  tells  us  of  heroes  and  heroines  who, 


51 

like  Lord  Byron's  corsair,  were  linked  with  one  virtue 
and  a  thousand  crimes.  And  so  dexterously  does  he 
weave  his  story  that  the  young  person  may  read  it 
and  learn  nothing  but  good. 

My  poor  heroine  was  the  converse  of  these  engaging 
criminals :  she  had  all  the  virtues  but  one ;  but  the 
virtue  she  lacked  (the  very  one  of  all  that  plays  the 
title-role,  and  gives  its  generic  name  to  all  the  rest  of 
that  goodly  company)  was  of  such  a  kind  that  I  have 
found  it  impossible  so  to  tell  her  history  as  to  make  it 
quite  fit  and  proper  reading  for  the  ubiquitous  young 
person  so  dear  to  us  all. 

Most  deeply  to  my  regret.  For  I  had  fondly  hoped 
it  might  one  day  be  said  of  me  that  whatever  my  other 
literary  shortcomings  might  be,  I  at  least  had  never 
penned  a  line  which  a  pure-minded  young  British 
mother  might  not  read  aloud  to  her  little  blue -eyed 
babe  as  it  lies  sucking  its  little  bottle  in  its  little 
bassinet. 

Fate  has  willed  it  otherwise. 

Would  indeed  that  I  could  duly  express  poor  Tril- 
by's one  shortcoming  in  some  not  too  familiar  medi- 
um—  in  Latin  or  Greek,  let  us  say  —  lest  the  young 
person  (in  this  ubiquitousness  of  hers,  for  which  Heav- 
en be  praised)  should  happen  to  pry  into  these  pages 
when  her  mother  is  looking  another  way. 

Latin  and  Greek  are  languages  the  young  person 
should  not  be  taught  to  understand — seeing  that  they 
are  highly  improper  languages,  deservedly  dead  —  in 
which  pagan  bards  who  should  have  known  better 
have  sung  the  filthy  loves  of  their  gods  and  goddesses. 

But  at  least  am  I  scholar  enough  to  enter  one  little 


•*&M'fl 
S/*  >*• 


Latin  plea  on  Trilby's 
behalf  —  the  shortest, 
best,  and  most  beauti- 
ful plea  I  can  think  of. 
It  was  once  used  in  ex- 
tenuation and  condona- 
tion of  the  frailties  of 
another  poor  weak 
woman,  presumably 
beautiful,  and  a  far 
worse  offender  than 
Trilby,  but  who,  like 
Trilby,  repented  of  her 
ways,  and  was  most  justly  forgiven— 

"Quia  multum  amavit  1" 

Whether  it  be  an  aggravation  of  her  misdeeds  or 
an  extenuating  circumstance,  no  pressure  of  want,  no 
temptations  of  greed  or  vanity,  had  ever  been  factors 
in  urging  Trilby  on  her  downward  career  after  her 
first  false  step  in  that  direction — the  result  of  igno- 
rance, bad  advice  (from  her  mother,  of  all  people  in  the 


TRILBY'S  FOREBEARS 


53 

world),  and  base  betrayal.  She  might  have  lived  in 
guilty  splendor  had  she  chosen,  but  her  wants  were 
few.  She  had  no  vanity,  and  her  tastes  were  of  the 
simplest,  and  she  earned  enough  to  gratify  them  all, 
and  to  spare. 

So  she  followed  love  for  love's  sake  only,  now  and 
then,  as  she  would  have  followed  art  if  she  had  been 
a  man — capriciously,  desultorily,  more  in  a  frolicsome 
spirit  of  camaraderie  than  anything  else.  Like  an 
amateur,  in  short  —  a  distinguished  amateur  who  is 
too  proud  to  sell  his  pictures,  but  willingly  gives  one 
away  now  and  then  to  some  highly  valued  and  much 
admiring  friend. 

Sheer  gayety  of  heart  and  genial  good-fellowship, 
the  difficulty  of  saying  nay  to  earnest  pleading.  She 
was  "  bonne  camarade  et  bonne  fille "  before  every- 
thing. Though  her  heart  was  not  large  enough  to 
harbor  more  than  one  light  love  at  a  time  (even  in 
that  Latin  quarter  of  genially  capacious  hearts),  it  had 
room  for  many  warm  friendships;  and  she  was  the 
warmest,  most  helpful,  and  most  compassionate  of 
friends,  far  more  serious  and  faithful  in  friendship 
than  in  love. 

Indeed,  she  might  almost  be  said  to  possess  a  vir- 
ginal heart,  so  little  did  she  know  of  love's  heart- 
aches and  raptures  and  torments  and  clingings  and 
jealousies. 

"With  her  it  was  lightly  come  and  lightly  go,  and 
never  come  back  again ;  as  one  or  two,  or  perhaps 
three,  picturesque  bohemians  of  the  brush  or  chisel 
had  found,  at  some  cost  to  their  vanity  and  self-es- 
teem ;  perhaps  even  to  a  deeper  feeling — who  knows? 


N 

Trilby's  father,  as  she  had  said,  had  been  a  gentU 
man,  the  son  of  a  famous  Dublin  physician  and  friend 
of  George  the  Fourth's.  He  had  been  a  fellow  of  hia 
college,  and  had  entered  holy  orders.  He  also  had  all 
the  virtues  but  one ;  he  was  a  drunkard,  and  began  to 
drink  quite  early  in  life.  He  soon  left  the  Church, 
and  became  a  classical  tutor,  and  failed  through  this 
besetting  sin  of  his,  and  fell  into  disgrace. 

Then  he  went  to  Paris,  and  picked  up  a  few  English 
pupils  there,  and  lost  them,  and  earned  a  precarious 
livelihood  from  hand  to  mouth,  anyhow ;  and  sank 
from  bad  to  worse. 

And  when  his  worst  was  about  reached,  he  married 
the  famous  tartaned  and  tamoshantered  bar -maid 
at  the  Montagnards  Ecossais,  in  the  Hue  du  Paradis 
Poissonniere  (a  very  fishy  paradise  indeed);  she  was 
a  most  beautiful  Highland  lassie  of  low  degree,  and 
she  managed  to  support  him,  or  helped  him  to  sup- 
port himself,  for  ten  or  fifteen  years.  Trilby  was  born 
to  them,  and  was  dragged  up  in  some  way — a  la  grace 
de  Dieu  ! 

Patrick  O'Ferrall  soon  taught  his  wife  to  drown  all 
care  and  responsibility  in  his  own  simple  way,  and 
opportunities  for  doing  so  were  never  lacking  to  her. 

Then  he  died,  and  left  a  posthumous  child  —  born 
ten  months  after  his  death,  alas !  and  whose  birth  cost 
its  mother  her  life. 

Then  Trilby  became  a  blanchisseuse  de  Jin,  and  in 
two  or  three  years  came  to  grief  through  her  trust  in 
a  friend  of  her  mother's.  Then  she  became  a  model 
besides,  and  was  able  to  support  her  little  brother,  whom 
she  dearly  loved. 


55 

At  the  time  this  story  begins,  this  small  waif  and 
stray  was  "  en  pension  "  with  le  pere  Martin,  the  rag. 
picker,  and  his  wife,  the  dealer  in  bric-a-brac  and  in- 
expensive old  masters.  They  were  very  good  people^ 
and  had  grown  fond  of  the  child,  who  was  beautiM 
to  look  at,  and  full  of  pretty  tricks  and  pluck  and 
cleverness — a  popular  favorite  in  the  Rue  du  Puits 
d'Amour  and  its  humble  neighborhood. 

Trilby,  for  some  freak,  always  chose  to  speak  of  him 
as  her  godson,  and  as  the  grandchild  of  le  pere  et  la 
mere  Martin,  so  that  these  good  people  had  almost 
grown  to  believe  he  really  belonged  to  them. 

And  almost  every  one  else  believed  that  he  was  the 
child  of  Trilby  (in  spite  of  her  youth),  and  she  was  so 
fond  of  him  that  she  didn't  mind  in  the  least. 

He  might  have  had  a  worse  home. 

La  mere  Martin  was  pious,  or  pretended  to  be;  le 
pere  Martin  was  the  reverse.  But  they  were  equally 
good  for  their  kind,  and,  though  coarse  and  igno- 
rant and  unscrupulous  in  many  ways  (as  was  natural 
enough),  they  were  gifted  in  a  very  full  measure  with 
the  saving  graces  of  love  and  charity,  especially  he. 
And  if  people  are  to  be  judged  by  their  works,  this 
worthy  pair  are  no  doubt  both  equally  well  compen- 
sated by  now  for  the  trials  and  struggles  of  their  sor. 
did  earthly  life. 

So  much  for  Trilby's  parentage. 

And  as  she  sat  and  wept  at  Madame  Doche's  imper- 
sonation of  la  Dame  aux  Camelias  (with  her  hand  in 
Durien's)  she  vaguely  remembered,  as  in  a  waking 
dream,  now  the  noble  presence  of  Taffy  as  he  towered 
cool  and  erect,  foil  in  hand,  gallantly  waiting  for  his 


66 


adversary  to  breathe,  now  the  beautiful  sensitive  face 
of  Little  Billee  and  his  deferential  courtesy. 

And  during  the  entr'actes  her  heart  went  out  in 
friendship  to  the  jolly  Scotch  Laird  of  Cockpen,  who 
came  out  now  and  then  with  such  terrible  French 
oaths  and  abominable  expletives  (and  in  the  presence 
of  ladies,  too !),  without  the  slightest  notion  of  what 
they  meant. 

For  the  Laird  had  a  quick  ear,  and  a  craving  to  be 
colloquial  and  idiomatic  before  everything  else,  and 
made  many  awkward  and  embarrassing  mistakes. 

It  would  be  with  him  as  though  a  polite  French- 
man should  say  to  a  fair  daughter  of  Albion,  "  D 

my  eyes,  mees,  your  tea  is  getting  —  —  cold ;  let  me 

tell  that  good  old of  a  Jules  to  bring  you  another 

cup." 

And  so  forth,  till  time  and  experience  taught  him 
better.  It  is  perhaps  well  for  him  that  his  first  exper- 
iments in  conversational  French  were  made  in  the  un- 
conventional circle  of  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts. 


part  Second 

"Dieu  !  qu'il  fait  bon  la  regarder, 
La  gracieuse,  bonne  et  belle  ! 
Pour  les  grands  biens  qui  sont  en  elle 
Chacun  est  prfit  de  la  louer." 

NOBODY  knew  exactly  how  Svengali  lived,  and  very 
few  knew  where  (or  why).  He  occupied  a  roomy  di- 
lapidated garret,  au  sixieme,  in  the  Rue  Tire-Liard; 
with  a  truckle-bed  and  a  piano-forte  for  furniture,  and 
very  little  else. 

He  was  poor ;  for  in  spite  of  his  talent  he  had  not 
yet  made  his  mark  in  Paris.  His  manners  may  have 
been  accountable  for  this.  He  would  either  fawn  or 
bully,  and  could  be  grossly  impertinent.  He  had  a 
kind  of  cynical  humor,  which  was  more  offensive  than 
amusing,  and  always  laughed  at  the  wrong  thing,  at 
the  wrong  time,  in  the  wrong  place.  And  his  laughter 
was  always  derisive  and  full  of  malice.  And  his  ego- 
tism and  conceit  were  not  to  be  borne ;  and  then  he 
was  both  tawdry  and  dirty  in  his  person ;  more  greas- 
ily, mattedly  unkempt  than  even  a  really  successful 
pianist  has  any  right  to  be,  even  in  the  best  society. 

He  was  not  a  nice  man,  and  there  was  no  pathos  in 
his  poverty — a  poverty  that  was  not  honorable,  and 
need  not  have  existed  at  all ;  for  he  was  constantly  re- 
ceiving supplies  from  his  own  people  in  Austria — his 
old  father  and  mother,  his  sisters,  his  cousins,  and  his 


58 

aunts,  hard-working,  frugal  folk  of  whom  he  was  the 
pride  and  the  darling. 

He  had  but  one  virtue  —  his  love  of  his  art;  or, 
rather,  his  love  of  himself  as  a  master  of  his  art — the 
master ;  for  he  despised,  or  affected  to  despise,  all  other 
musicians,  living  or  dead — even  those  whose  work  he 
interpreted  so  divinely,  and  pitied  them  for  not  hear- 
ing Svengali  give  utterance  to  their  music,  which  of 
course  they  could  not  utter  themselves. 

"  Us  safent  tous  un  peu  toucher  du  bidno,  mais  pas 
grand'chose !" 

He  had  been  the  best  pianist  of  his  time  at  the  Con- 
servatory in  Leipsic ;  and,  indeed,  there  was  perhaps 
some  excuse  for  this  overweening  conceit,  since  he  was 
able  to  lend  a  quite  peculiar  individual  charm  of  his 
own  to  any  music  he  played,  except  the  highest  and 
best  of  all,  in  which  he  conspicuously  failed. 

He  had  to  draw  the  line  just  above  Chopin,  where 
he  reached  his  highest  level.  It  will  not  do  to  lend 
your  own  quite  peculiar  individual  charm  to  Handel 
and  Bach  and  Beethoven  ;  and  Chopin  is  not  bad  as  a 
pis-otter. 

He  had  ardently  wished  to  sing,  and  had  studied 
hard  to  that  end  in  Germany,  in  Italy,  in  France,  with 
the  forlorn  hope  of  evolving  from  some  inner  recess  a 
voice  to  sing  with.  But  nature  had  been  singularly 
harsh  to  him  in  this  one  respect —inexorable.  He  was 
absolutely  without  voice,  beyond  the  harsh,  hoarse, 
weak  raven's  croak  he  used  to  speak  with,  and  no 
method  availed  to  make  one  for  him.  But  he  grew  to 
understand  the  human  voice  as  perhaps  no  one  has 
understood  it — before  or  since. 


59 


So  in  his  head  he  went  forever  singing,  singing,  sing- 
ing, as  probably  no  human  nightingale  has  ever  yet 
been  able  to  sing  out  loud  for  the  glory  and  delight  of 
his  fellow-mortals ;  making  unheard  heavenly  melody 
of  the  cheapest,  trivialest  tunes  —  tunes  of  the  cafe 
concert,  tunes  of  the  nursery,  the  shop -parlor,  the 
guard-room,  the  school-room,  the  pothouse,  the  slum. 
There  was  nothing  so  humble,  so  base  even,  but  that 
his  magic  could  transform  it  into  the  rarest  beauty 
without  altering  a  note.  This  seems  impossible,  I 
know.  But  if  it  didn't,  where  would  the  magic  come 
in? 

Whatever  of  heart  or  conscience — pity,  love,  tender- 
ness, manliness,  courage,  reverence,  charity — endowed 
him  at  his  birth  had  been  swallowed  up  by  this  one 
faculty,  and  nothing  of  them  was  left  for  the  common 
uses  of  life.  He  poured  them 
all  into  his  little  flexible  flag- 
eolet. 

Svengali  playing  Chopin  on 
the  piano -forte,  even  (or  espe- 
cially) Svengali  playing  "Ben 
Bolt "  on  that  penny  whistle  of 
his,  was  as  one  of  the  heavenly 
host. 

Svengali  walking  up  and 
down  the  earth  seeking  whom 
he  might  cheat,  betray,  exploit, 

borrow  money  from,  make  brutal  fun  of,  bully  if  he 
dared,  cringe  to  if  he  must  —  man,  woman,  child,  or 
dog — was  about  as  bad  as  they  make  'em. 

To  earn  a  few  pence  when  he  couldn't  borrow  them 


1  AS    BAD  AS   THEY  MAKE   EM 


60 

he  played  accompaniments  at  cafe  concerts,  and  even 
then  he  gave  offence;  for  in  his  contempt  for  the 
singer  he  would  play  too  loud,  and  embroider  his  ac- 
companiments with  brilliant  improvisations  of  his  own, 
and  lift  his  hands  on  high  and  bring  them  down  with 
a  bang  in  the  sentimental  parts,  and  shake  his  dirty 
mane  and  shrug  his  shoulders,  and  smile  and  leer  at 
the  audience,  and  do  all  he  could  to  attract  their  at- 
tention to  himself.  He  also  gave  a  few  music  lessons 
(not  at  ladies'  schools,  let  us  hope),  for  which  he  was 
not  well  paid,  presumably,  since  he  was  always  with- 
out the  sou,  always  borrowing  money,  that  he  never 
paid  back,  and  exhausting  the  pockets  and  the  pa- 
tience of  one  acquaintance  after  another. 

He  had  but  two  friends.  There  was  Gecko,  who 
lived  in  a  little  garret  close  by  in  the  Impasse  des  Ka- 
moneurs,  and  who  was  second  violin  in  the  orchestra 
of  the  Gymnase,  and  shared  his  humble  earnings  with 
his  master,  to  whom,  indeed,  he  owed  his  great  talent, 
not  yet  revealed  to  the  world. 

Svengali's  other  friend  and  pupil  was  (or  rather  had 
been)  the  mysterious  Honorine,  of  whose  conquest  he 
was  much  given  to  boast,  hinting  that  she  was  "  une 
jeune  femme  du  monde."  This  was  not  the  case. 
Mademoiselle  Honorine  Cahen  (better  known  in  the 
quartier  latin  as  Mimi  la  Salope)  was  a  dirty,  drabby 
little  dolly-mop  of  a  Jewess,  a  model  for  the  figure — 
a  very  humble  person  indeed,  socially. 

She  was,  however,  of  a  very  lively  disposition,  and 
had  a  charming  voice,  and  a  natural  gift  of  singing  so 
sweetly  that  you  forgot  her  accent,  which  was  that  of 
the  "  tout  ce  qu'il  y  a  de  plus  canaille." 


61 

She  used  to  sit  at  Carrel's,  and  during  the  pose  she 
would  sing.  "When  Little  Billee  first  heard  her  he  was 
so  fascinated  that  "  it  made  him  sick  to  think  she  sat 
for  the  figure" — an  effect,  by -the- way,  that  was  al- 
ways produced  upon  him  by  all  specially  attractive 
figure  models  of  the  gentler  sex,  for  he  had  a  rever- 
ence for  woman.  And  before  everything  else,  he  had 
for  the  singing  woman  an  absolute  worship.  He  was 
especially  thrall  to  the  contralto — the  deep  low  voice 
that  breaks  and  changes  in  the  middle  and  soars  all  at 
once  into  a  magnified  angelic  boy  treble.  It  pierced 
through  his  ears  to  his  heart,  and  stirred  his  very 
vitals. 

He  had  once  heard  Madame  Alboni,  and  it  had 
been  an  epoch  in  his  life ;  he  would  have  been  an 
easy  prey  to  the  sirens !  Even  beauty  paled  before 
the  lovely  female  voice  singing  in  the  middle  of  the 
note — the  nightingale  killed  the  bird-of-paradise. 

I  need  hardly  say  that  poor  Mimi  la  Salope  had 
not  the  voice  of  Madame  Alboni,  nor  the  art ;  but  it 
was  a  beautiful  voice  of  its  little  kind,  always  in  the 
very  middle  of  the  note,  and  her  artless  art  had  its 
quick  seduction. 

She  sang  little  songs  of  Beranger's — "  Grand'mere, 
parlez-nous  de  lui !"  or  "  T'en  souviens-tu  ?  disait  un 
capitaine — "  or  "  Enfants,  c'est  moi  qui  suis  Lisette !" 
and  such  like  pretty  things,  that  almost  brought  the 
tears  to  Little  Billee's  easily  moistened  eyes. 

But  soon  she  would  sing  little  songs  that  were  not 
by  Beranger — little  songs  with  slang  words  Little 
Billee  hadn't  French  enough  to  understand ;  but  from 
the  kind  of  laughter  with  which  the  points  were  re- 


ceived  by  the"rapins"  in  Carrel's  studio  he  guessed 
these  little  songs  were  vile,  though  the  touching  little 
voice  was  as  that  of  the  seraphim  still ;  and  he  knew 
the  pang  of  disenchantment  and  vicarious  shame. 

Svengali  had  heard  her  sing  at  the  Brasserie  des 
Porcherons  in  the  Rue  du  Crapaud-volant,  and  had 
volunteered  to  teach  her ;  and  she  went  to  see  him  in 
his  garret,  and  he  played  to  her,  and  leered  and  ogled, 
and  flashed  his  bold,  black,  beady  Jew's  eyes  into  hers, 
and  she  straightway  mentally  prostrated  herself  in 
reverence  and  adoration  before  this  dazzling  specimen 
of  her  race. 

So  that  her  sordid,  mercenary  little  gutter-draggled 
soul  was  filled  with  the  sight  and  the  sound  of  him, 
as  of  a  lordly,  godlike,  shawm-playing,  cymbal-bang- 
ing hero  and  prophet  of  the  Lord  God  of  Israel- 
David  and  Saul  in  one ! 

And  then  he  set  himself  to  teach  her — kindly  and 
patiently  at  first,  calling  her  sweet  little  pet  names— 
his  "  Rose  of  Sharon,"  his  "  pearl  of  Pabylon,"  his 
"  cazelle-eyed  liddle  Cherusalem  skylark  " — and  prom- 
ised her  that  she  should  be  the  queen  of  the  nightin- 
gales. 

But  before  he  could  teach  her  anything  he  had  to 
unteach  her  all  she  knew  ;  her  breathing,  the  produc- 
tion of  her  voice,  its  emission—  -everything  was  wrong. 
She  worked  indefatigably  to  please  him,  and  soon 
succeeded  in  forgetting  all  the  pretty  little  sympa- 
thetic tricks  of  voice  and  phrasing  Mother  Nature 
had  taught  her. 

But  though  she  had  an  exquisite  ear,  she  had  no 
real  musical  intelligence — no  intelligence  of  any  kind 


"A  VOICE  HE  DIDN'T  UNDERSTAND" 


64 

except  about  sous  and  centimes ;  she  was  as  stupid  as 
a  little  downy  owl,  and  her  voice  was  just  a  light 
native  warble,  a  throstle's  pipe,  all  in  the  head  and 
nose  and  throat  (a  voice  he  didn't  understand,  for 
once),  a  thing  of  mere  youth  and  health  and  bloom 
and  high  spirits  —  like  her  beauty,  such  as  it  was— 
beaute  du  diable,  beaute  damnee. 

She  did  her  very  best,  and  practised  all  she  could 
in  this  new  way,  and  sang  herself  hoarse :  she  scarce- 
ly ate  or  slept  for  practising.  He  grew  harsh  and  im- 
patient and  coldly  severe,  and  of  course  she  loved  him 
all  the  more;  and  the  more  she  loved  him  the  more 
nervous  she  got  and  the  worse  she  sang.  Her  voice 
cracked ;  her  ear  became  demoralized ;  her  attempts 
to  vocalize  grew  almost  as  comical  as  Trilby's.  So 
that  he  lost  his  temper  completely,  and  called  her  ter- 
rible names,  and  pinched  and  punched  her  with  his 
big  bony  hands  till  she  wept  worse  than  Xiobe,  and 
borrowed  money  of  her — five-franc  pieces,  even  francs 
and  demifrancs — which  he  never  paid  her  back;  and 
browbeat  and  bullied  and  ballyragged  her  till  she 
went  quite  mad  for  love  of  him,  and  would  have 
jumped  out  of  his  sixth-floor  window  to  give  him  a 
moment's  pleasure ! 

lie  did  not  ask  her  to  do  this — it  never  occurred  to 
him,  and  would  have  given  him  no  pleasure  to  speak 
of.  But  one  fine  Sabbath  morning  (a  Saturday,  of 
course)  he  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and  chucked 
her,  neck  and  crop,  out  of  his  garret,  with  the  threat 
that  if  she  ever  dared  to  show  her  face  there  again 
he  would  denounce  her  to  the  police — an  awful  threat 
to  the  likes  of  poor  Mi  mi  la  Salope ! 


65 

"For  where  did  all  those  five -franc  pieces  come 
from — hein  ? — with  which  she  had  tried  to  pay  for  all 
the  singing-lessons  that  had  been  thrown  away  upon 
her  ?  Not  from  merely  sitting  to  painters — hein  f" 

Thus  the  little  gazelle-eyed  Jerusalem  skylark  went 
back  to  her  native  streets  again — a  mere  mud -lark 
of  the  Paris  slums  —  her  wings  clipped,  her  spirit 
quenched  and  broken,  and  with  no  more  singing  left 
in  her  than  a  common  or  garden  sparrow  —  not  so 
much! 

And  so,  no  more  of  "  la  betite  Honorine !" 

The  morning  after  this  adventure  Svengali  woke 
up  in  his  garret  with  a  tremendous  longing  to  spend 
a  happy  day ;  for  it  was  a  Sunday,  and  a  very  fine 
one. 

He  made  a  long  arm  and  reached  his  waistcoat  and 
trousers  off  the  floor,  and  emptied  the  contents  of 
their  pockets  on  to  his  tattered  blanket ;  no  silver,  no 
gold,  only  a  few  sous  and  two-sou  pieces,  just  enough 
to  pay  for  a  meagre  premier  dejeuner  ! 

He  had  cleared  out  Gecko  the  day  before,  and 
spent  the  proceeds  (ten  francs,  at  least)  in  one  night's 
riotous  living — pleasures  in  which  Gecko  had  had  no 
share ;  and  he  could  think  of  no  one  to  borrow  money 
from  but  Little  Billee,  Taffy,  and  the  Laird,  whom  he 
had  neglected  and  left  untapped  for  days. 

So  he  slipped  into  his  clothes,  and  looked  at  himself 
in  what  remained  of  a  little  zinc  mirror,  and  found 
that  his  forehead  left  little  to  be  desired,  but  that  his 
eyes  and  temples  were  decidedly  grimy.  Wherefore, 
he  poured  a  little  water  out  of  a  little  jug  into  a  little 


M 

basin,  and,  twisting  the  corner  of  his  pocket-handker- 
chief round  his  dirty  forefinger,  he  delicately  dipped 
it,  and  removed  the  offending  stains.  His  fingers,  he 
thought,  would  do  very  well  for  another  day  or  two 
as  they  were ;  he  ran  them  through  his  matted  black 
mane,  pushed  it  behind  his  ears,  and  gave  it  the  twist 
he  liked  (and  that  was  so  much  disliked  by  his  Eng- 
lish friends).  Then  he  put  on  his  beret  and  his  velvet- 
een cloak,  and  went  forth  into  the  sunny  streets,  with 
a  sense  of  the  fragrance  and  freedom  and  pleasant- 
ness of  Sunday  morning  in  Paris  in  the  month  of  May. 

He  found  Little  Billee  sitting  in  a  zinc  hip-bath, 
busy  with  soap  and  sponge ;  and  was  so  tickled  and 
interested  by  the  sight  that  he  quite  forgot  for  the 
moment  what  he  had  come  for. 

"  Himmel !  Why  the  devil  are  you  doing  that  ?" 
he  asked,  in  his  German-IIebrew-French. 

"  Doing  what  ?"  asked  Little  Billee,  in  his  French 
of  Stratford-atte-Bowe. 

"  Sitting  in  water  and  playing  with  a  cake  of  soap 
and  a  sponge !" 

"  Why,  to  try  and  get  myself  clean,  I  suppose !" 

"  Ach !  And  how  the  devil  did  you  get  yourself 
dirty,  then?" 

To  this  Little  Billee  found  no  immediate  answer, 
and  went  on  with  his  ablution  after  the  hissing,  splash- 
ing, energetic  fashion  of  Englishmen ;  and  Svengali 
laughed  loud  and  long  at  the  spectacle  of  a  little 
Englishman  trying  to  get  himself  clean — "  tachant 
de  se  nettoyer !" 

When  such  cleanliness  had  been  attained  as  was 
possible  under  the  circumstances,  Svengali  begged  for 


67 


the  loan  of  two  hundred  francs,  and  Little  Billee  gave 
him  a  five-franc  piece. 

Content   with  this,  faute  de   mieux,  the   German 
asked  him  when  he  would  be  trying  to  get  himself 
clean    again,    as    he    would 
much  like  to  come  and  see 
him  do  it. 

"  Demang  mattang,  a  votre 
sairveece  !"  said  Little  Billee, 
with  a  courteous  bow. 

"  What !  !  Monday  too  !  ! 
Gott  in  Himmel !  you  try  to 
get  yourself  clean  everyday  ?" 

And  he  laughed  himself 
out  of  the  room,  out  of  the 
house,  out  of  the  Place  de 
1'Odeon — all  the  way  to  the 
Rue  de  Seine,  where  dwelt 
the  "Man  of  Blood,"  whom 
he  meant  to  propitiate  with 
the  story  of  that  original, 
Little  Billee,  trying  to  get 
himself  clean — that  he  might 
borrow  another  five  -  franc 
piece,  or  perhaps  two. 

As  the  reader  will  no  doubt  anticipate,  he  found 
Taffy  in  his  bath  too,  and  fell  to  laughing  with  such 
convulsive  laughter,  such  twistings,  screwings,  and 
doublings  of  himself  up,  such  pointings  of  his  dirty 
forefinger  at  the  huge  naked  Briton,  that  Taffy  was 
offended,  and  all  but  lost  his  temper. 

"What  the  devil  are  you  cackling  at,  sacred  head 


'  AND    SO,   NO    MORE. 


88 

of  pig  that  you  are  ?  Do  you  want  to  be  pitched  out 
of  that  window  into  the  Kue  de  Seine?  You  filthy 
black  Hebrew  sweep !  Just  you  wait  a  bit ;  Pll  wash 
your  head  for  you !" 

And  Taffy  jumped  out  of  his  bath,  such  a  towering 
figure  of  righteous  Herculean  wrath  that  Svengali  was 
appalled,  and  fled. 

"  Donnerwetter !"  he  exclaimed,  as  he  tumbled  down 
the  narrow  staircase  of  the  Hotel  de  Seine  ;  "  what  for 
a  thick  head !  what  for  a  pigdog!  what  for  a  rotten, 
brutal,  verfluchter  kerl  of  an  Englander !" 

Then  he  paused  for  thought. 

"  Now  will  I  go  to  that  Scottish  Englander,  in  the 
Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  for  that  other  five-franc 
piece.  But  first  will  I  wait  a  little  while  till  he  has 
perhaps  finished  trying  to  get  himself  clean." 

So  he  breakfasted  at  the  cremerie  Souchet,  in  the 
Rue  Clopin-Clopant,  and,  feeling  quite  safe  again,  he 
laughed  and  laughed  till  his  very  sides  were  sore. 

Two  Englanders  in  one  day — as  naked  as  your 
hand ! — a  big  one  and  a  little  one,  trying  to  get  them- 
selves clean ! 

He  rather  flattered  himself  he'd  scored  off  those 
two  Englanders. 

After  all,  he  was  right  perhaps,  from  his  point  of 
view :  you  can  get  as  dirty  in  a  week  as  in  a  lifetime, 
so  what's  the  use  of  taking  such  a  lot  of  trouble  ?  Be- 
sides, so  long  as  you  are  clean  enough  to  suit  your 
kind,  to  be  any  cleaner  would  be  priggish  and  pedan- 
tic, and  get  you  disliked. 

Just  as  Svengali  was  about  to  knock  at  the  Laird's 
door,  Trilby  came  down -stairs  from  Durien's,  very 


69 

unlike  herself.  Her  eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and 
there  were  great  black  rings  round  them ;  she  was 
pale  under  her  freckles. 

"  Fous  afez  du  chacrin,  materaoiselle  ?"  asked  he. 

She  told  him  that  she  had  neuralgia  in  her  eyes,  a 
thing  she  was  subject  to ;  that  the  pain  was  madden- 
ing, and  generally  lasted  twenty -four  hours. 

"  Perhaps  I  can  cure  you  ;  come  in  here  with  me." 

The  Laird's  ablutions  (if  he  had  indulged  in  any 
that  morning)  were  evidently  over  for  the  day.  He 
was  breakfasting  on  a  roll  and  butter,  and  coffee  of 
his  own  brewing.  He  was  deeply  distressed  at  the 
sight  of  poor  Trilby's  sufferings,  and  offered  whiskey 
and  coffee  and  gingernuts,  which  she  would  not  touch. 

Svengali  told  her  to  sit  down  on  the  divan,  and  sat 
opposite  to  her,  and  bade  her  look  him  well  in  the 
white  of  the  eyes. 

"  Recartez-moi  pien  tans  le  plane  tes  yeux." 

Then  he  made  little  passes  and  counterpasses  on  her 
forehead  and  temples  and  down  her  cheek  and  neck. 
Soon  her  eyes  closed  and  her  face  grew  placid.  After 
a  while,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  perhaps,  he  asked  her  if 
she  suffered  still. 

"  Oh !  presque  plus  du  tout,  monsieur — c'est  le  ciel." 

In  a  few  minutes  more  he  asked  the  Laird  if  he 
knew  German. 

"  Just  enough  to  understand,"  said  the  Laird  (who 
had  spent  a  year  in  Diisseldorf),  and  Svengali  said  to 
him  in  German :  "  See,  she  sleeps  not,  but  she  shall 
not  open  her  eyes.  Ask  her." 

"  Are  you  asleep,  Miss  Trilby  ?"  asked  the  Laird. 

"No." 

6 


"Then  open 
your  eyes  and 
look  at  me." 

She  strained  to 
open  her  eyes, 
but  could  not, 
and  said  so. 

Then  Svengali 
said,  again  in 
German,  "She 
shall  not  open 
her  mouth.  Ask 
her." 

"  Why  couldn't  you  open  your  eyes,  Miss  Trilby  ?" 
She  strained  to  open  her  mouth  and  speak,  but  in  vain. 
"She  shall  not  rise  from  the  divan.     Ask  her." 
But  Trilby  was  spellbound,  and  could  not  move. 


"'TWO  KNGLANDERS  IN    OSK   DAY1 


71 

"I  will  now  set  her  free,"  said  Svengali. 

And,  lo !  she  got  up  and  waved  her  arms,  and  cried, 
"  Vive  la  Prusse !  me  v'la  gue'rie !"  and  in  her  grati- 
tude she  kissed  Svengali's  hand ;  and  he  leered,  and 
showed  his  big  brown  teeth  and  the  yellow  whites  at 
the  top  of  his  big  black  eyes,  and  drew  his  breath  with 
a  hiss. 

"  Now  I'll  go  to  Durien's  and  sit.  How  can  I  thank 
you,  monsieur  ?  You  have  taken  all  my  pain  away." 

"  Yes,  matemoiselle.  I  have  got  it  myself  ;  it  is  in 
my  elbows.  But  I  love  it,  because  it  comes  from  you. 
Every  time  you  have  pain  you  shall  come  to  me,  12 
Rue  Tire-Liard,  au  sixieme  au-dessus  de  1'entresol,  and 
I  will  cure  you  and  take  your  pain  myself— 

"  Oh,  you  are  too  good !"  and  in  her  high  spirits  she 
turned  round  on  her  heel  and  uttered  her  portentous 
war-cry,  "  Milk  below !"  The  very  rafters  rang  with 
it,  and  the  piano  gave  out  a  solemn  response. 

"  What  is  that  you  say,  matemoiselle  ?" 

"  Oh !  it's  what  the  milkmen  say  in  England." 

"It  is  a  wonderful  cry,  matemoiselle  —  wunder- 
schon !  It  comes  straight  through  the  heart ;  it  has 
its  roots  in  the  stomach,  and  blossoms  into  music 
on  the  lips  like  the  voice  of  Madame  Alboni — voce 
sulle  labbre !  It  is  good  production — c'est  un  cri  du 
cceur !" 

Trilby  blushed  with  pride  and  pleasure. 

"  Yes,  matemoiselle  !  I  only  know  one  person  in 
the  whole  world  who  can  produce  the  voice  so  well  as 
you !  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor." 

"  Who  is  it,  monsieur — yourself  ?" 

"  Ach,  no,  matemoiselle ;  I  have  not  that  privilege. 


72 

I  have  unfortunately  no  voice  to  produce.  ...  It  is 
a  waiter  at  the  Caf6  de  la  Rotonde,  in  the  Palais 
Royal ;  when  you  call  for  coffee,  he  says  '  Bourn !'  in 
basso  profondo.  Tiefstimme — F.  moll  below  the  line 
— it  is  phenomenal !  It  is  like  a  cannon — a  cannon 
also  has  very  good  production,  matemoiselle.  They 
pay  him  for  it  a  thousand  francs  a  year,  because  he 
brings  many  customers  to  the  Cafe  de  la  Rotonde, 
where  the  coffee  isn't  very  good.  When  he  dies  they 
will  search  all  France  for  another,  and  then  all  Ger- 
many, where  the  good  big  waiters  come  from — and 
the  cannons  —  but  they  will  not  find  him,  and  the 
Cafe  de  la  Rotonde  will  be  bankrupt — unless  you  will 
consent  to  take  his  place.  Will  you  permit  that  I 
shall  look  into  your  mouth,  matemoiselle  ?'' 

She  opened  her  mouth  wide,  and  he  looked  into  it. 

"  Himmel !  the  roof  of  your  mouth  is  like  the  dome 
of  the  Pantheon ;  there  is  room  in  it  for  '  toutes  les 
gloires  de  la  France,'  and  a  little  to  spare !  The  en- 
trance to  your  throat  is  like  the  middle  porch  of  St. 
Sulpice  when  the  doors  are  open  for  the  faithful  on  All- 
Saints'  day ;  and  not  one  tooth  is  missing — thirty-two 
British  teeth  as  white  as  milk  and  as  big  as  knuckle- 
bones !  and  your  little  tongue  is  scooped  out  like  the 
leaf  of  a  pink  peony,  and  the  bridge  of  your  nose  is 
like  the  belly  of  a  Stradivarius — what  a  sounding- 
board  !  and  inside  your  beautiful  big  chest  the  lungs 
are  made  of  leather !  and  your  breath,  it  embalms — 
like  the  breath  of  a  beautiful  white  heifer  fed  on  the 
buttercups  and  daisies  of  the  Vaterland !  and  you 
have  a  quick,  soft,  susceptible  heart,  a  heart  of  gold, 
matemoiselle — all  that  sees  itself  in  your  face ! 


"  '  HIMMEL  !    THE   ROOF   OF   YOUR   MOUTH  '  " 


74 

"  '  Votrc  coeur  cst  un  luth  suspendu  ! 

Aussitdt  qu'on  le  louche,  il  resonne.  .  .  .* 

What  a  pity  you  have  not  also  the  musical  organiza- 
tion !" 

"  Oh,  but  I  have,  monsieur ;  you  heard  me  sing 
*  Ben  Bolt,'  didn't  you  ?  What  makes  you  say  that  ?" 

Svengali  was  confused  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said : 
"  When  I  play  the  '  Rosemonde '  of  Schubert,  mate- 
moiselle,  you  look  another  way  and  smoke  a  cigarette. 
.  .  .  You  look  at  the  big  Taffy,  at  the  Little  Billee, 
at  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  or  out  of  window,  at  the 
sky,  the  chimney-pots  of  Notre  Dame  de  Paris ;  you 
do  not  look  at  Svengali ! — Svengali,  who  looks  at  you 
with  all  his  eyes,  and  plays  yofc  the  '  Rosemonde '  of 
Schubert !" 

"  Oh,  mai'e,  aie !"  exclaimed  Trilby ;  "  you  do  use 
lovely  language !" 

"But  never  mind,  matemoiselle ;  when  your  pain 
arrives,  then  shall  you  come  once  more  to  Svengali, 
and  he  shall  take  it  away  from  you,  and  keep  it  him- 
self for  a  soufenir  of  you  when  you  are  gone.  And 
when  you  have  it  no  more,  he  shall  play  you  the 
1  Rosemonde'  of  Schubert,  all  alone  for  you;  and 
then,  'Messieurs  les  etutiants,  montez  a  la  chaumiore!' 
.  .  .  because  it  is  gayer!  And  you  shall  see  notfi- 
ing,  hear  nothing,  think  of  nothing  but  Svengali,  Sven- 
gali.  Svengali  /" 

Here  he  felt  his  peroration  to  be  so  happy  and 
effective  that  he  thought  it  well  to  go  at  once  and 
make  a  good  exit.  So  he  bent  over  Trilby's  shapely 
freckled  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  bowed  himself  out 


75 

of  the  room,  without  even  borrowing  his  five -franc 
piece. 

"  He's  a  rum  'un,  ain't  he  ?"  said  Trilby.  "  He  re- 
minds me  of  a  big  hungry  spider,  and  makes  me  feel 
like  a  fly !  But  he's  cured  my  pain !  he's  cured  my 
pain!  Ah!  you  don't  know  what  my  pain  is  when  it 
comes !" 

"I  wouldn't  have  much  to  do  with  him,  all  the 
same !"  said  the  Laird.  "  I'd  sooner  have  any  pain 
than  have  it  cured  in  that  unnatural  way,  and  by  such 
a  man  as  that !  He's  a  bad  fellow,  Svengali — I'm  sure 
of  it !  He  mesmerized  you ;  that's  what  it  is — mes- 
merism !  I've  often  heard  of  it,  but  never  seen  it  done 
before.  They  get  you  into  their  power,  and  just  make 
you  do  any  blessed  thing  they  please — lie,  murder, 
steal  —  anything!  and  kill  yourself  into  the  bargain 
when  they've  done  with  you!  It's  just  too  terrible 
to  think  of !" 

So  spake  the  Laird,  earnestly,  solemnly,  surprised 
out  of  his  usual  self,  and  most  painfully  impressed — 
and  his  own  impressiveness  grew  upon  him  and  im- 
pressed him  still  more.  He  loomed  quite  prophetic. 

Cold  shivers  went  down  Trilby's  back  as  she  lis- 
tened. She  had  a  singularly  impressionable  nature, 
as  was  shown  by  her  quick  and  ready  susceptibility 
to  Svengali's  hypnotic  influence.  And  all  that  day, 
as  she  posed  for  Durien  (to  whom  she  did  not  men- 
tion her  adventure),  she  was  haunted  by  the  memory 
of  Svengali's  big  eyes  and  the  touch  of  his  soft,  dirty 
finger-tips  on  her  face;  and  her  fear  and  her  repul- 
sion grew  together. 

And  "  Svengali,  Svengali,  Svengali !"  went  ringing 


78 

in  her  head  and  ears  till  it  became  an  obsession,  a 
dirge,  a  knell,  an  unendurable  burden,  almost  as  hard 
to  bear  as  the  pain  in  her  eyes. 

"Svengali,  Svengali,  Svengali!" 

At  last  she  asked  Durien  if  he  knew  him. 

"  Parbleu !     Si  je  connais  Svengali !" 

"  Quest-ce  que  t'en  penses  ?" 

"  Quand  il  sera  mort,  ya  fera  une  fameuse  crapule 
de  moins !" 

"CHEZ  CARREL." 

Carrel's  atelier  (or  painting-school)  was  in  the  Rue 
Notre  Dame  des  Potirons  St.  Michel,  at  the  end  of 
a  large  court-yard,  where  there  were  many  large  dirty 
windows  facing  north,  and  each  window  let  the  light 
of  heaven  into  a  large  dirty  studio. 

The  largest  of  these  studios,  and  the  dirtiest,  was 
Carrel's,  where  some  thirty  or  forty  art  students  drew 
and  painted  from  the  nude  model  every  day  but  Sun- 
day from  eight  till  twelve,  and  for  two  hours  in  the 
afternoon,  except  on  Saturdays,  when  the  afternoon 
was  devoted  to  much-needed  Augean  sweepings  and 
cleanings. 

One  week  the  model  was  male,  the  next  female,  and 
so  on,  alternating  throughout  the  year. 

A  stove,  a  model  -  throne,  stools,  boxes,  some  fifty 
strongly  built  low  chairs  with  backs,  a  couple  of 
score  easels  and  many  drawing-boards,  completed  the 
mobilier. 

The  bare  walls  were  adorned  with  endless  carica- 
tures— de3  charges — in  charcoal  and  white  chalk ;  and 


also  the  scrapings  of 
many  palettes  —  a  poly- 
chromous  decoration  not 

unpleasing.  " '  9A  FERA  UNE  FAMEUSE  CRAPUUC 

For    the    freedom    of  DK  MOI*s ' " 

the  studio  and    the  use 

of  the  model  each  student  paid  ten  francs  a  month  to 
the  massier,  or  senior  student,  the  responsible  bell- 
wether of  the  flock ;  besides  this,  it  was  expected  of 
you,  on  your  entrance  or  initiation,  that  you  should 
pay  for  your  footing — your  bienvenue — some  thirty, 
forty,  or  fifty  francs,  to  be  spent  on  cakes  and  rum 
punch  all  round. 

Every  Friday  Monsieur  Carrel,  a  great  artist,  and 
also  a  stately,  well-dressed,  and  most  courteous  gentle- 
man (duly  decorated  with  the  red  rosette  of  the  Legion 
of  Honor),  came  for  two  or  three  hours  and  went  the 


78 

round,  spending  a  few  minutes  at  each  drawing-board 
or  easel — ten  or  even  twelve  when  the  pupil  was  an 
industrious  and  promising  one. 

He  did  this  for  love,  not  money,  and  deserved  all 
the  reverence  with  which  he  inspired  this  somewhat 
irreverent  and  most  unruly  company,  which  was  made 
up  of  all  sorts. 

Graybeards  who  had  been  drawing  and  painting 
there  for  thirty  years  and  more,  and  remembered 
other  masters  than  Carrel,  and  who  could  draw  and 
paint  a  torso  almost  as  well  as  Titian  or  Velasquez — 
almost,  but  not  quite — and  who  could  never  do  any- 
thing else,  and  were  fixtures  at  Carrel's  for  life. 

Younger  men  who  in  a  year  or  two,  or  three  or  five, 
or  ten  or  twenty,  were  bound  to  make  their  mark,  and 
perhaps  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  the  master ;  others 
as  conspicuously  singled  out  for  failure  and  future 
mischance — for  the  hospital,  the  garret,  the  river,  the 
Morgue,  or,  worse,  the  traveller's  bag,  the  road,  or 
even  the  paternal  counter. 

Irresponsible  boys,  mere  rapins,  all  laugh  and  chaff 
and  mischief  —  "  blague  et  bagout  Parisien  " ;  little 
lords  of  misrule — wits,  butts,  bullies ;  the  idle  and  in- 
dustrious apprentice,  the  good  and  the  bad,  the  clean 
and  the  dirty  (especially  the  latter) — all  more  or  less 
animated  by  a  certain  esprit  de  corps,  and  working 
very  happily  and  genially  together,  on  the  whole,  and 
always  willing  to  help  each  other  with  sincere  artistic 
counsel  if  it  were  asked  for  seriously,  though  it  was 
not  always  couched  in  terms  very  flattering  to  one's 
self-love. 

Before  Little  Billee  became  one  of  this  band  of 


79 

brothers  he  had  been  working  for  three  or  four  years 
in  a  London  art  school,  drawing  and  painting  from 
the  life ;  he  had  also  worked  from  the  antique  in  the 
British  Museum — so  that  he  was  no  novice. 

As  he  made  his  debut  at  Carrel's  one  Monday  morn- 
ing he  felt  somewhat  shy  and  ill  at  ease.  He  had 
studied  French  most  earnestly  at  home  in  England, 
and  could  read  it  pretty  well,  and  even  write  it  and 
speak  it  after  a  fashion ;  but  he  spoke  it  with  much 
difficulty,  and  found  studio  French  a  different  lan- 
guage altogether  from  the  formal  and  polite  language 
he  had  been  at  such  pains  to  learn.  Ollendorff  does 
not  cater  for  the  quartier  latin.  Acting  on  Taffy's 
advice  —  for  Taffy  had  worked  under  Carrel — Little 
Billee  handed  sixty  francs  to  the  massier  for  his  Men- 
venue — a  lordly  sum — and  this  liberality  made  a  most 
favorable  impression,  and  went  far  to  destroy  any 
little  prejudice  that  might  have  been  caused  by  the 
daintiness  of  his  dress,  the  cleanliness  of  his  person, 
and  the  politeness  of  his  manners.  A  place  was  as- 
signed to  him,  and  an  easel  and  a  board;  for  he 
elected  to  stand  at  his  work  and  begin  with  a  chalk 
drawing.  The  model  (a  male)  was  posed,  and  work 
began  in  silence.  Monday  morning  is  always  rather 
sulky  everywhere  (except  perhaps  in  judee).  During 
the  ten  minutes'  rest  three  or  four  students  came  and 
looked  at  Little  Billee's  beginnings,  and  saw  at  a 
glance  that  he  thoroughly  well  knew  what  he  was 
about,  and  respected  him  for  it. 

Nature  had  given  him  a  singularly  light  hand — or 
rather  two,  for  he  was  ambidextrous,  and  could  use 
both  with  equal  skill ;  and  a  few  months'  practice  at 


80 

a  London  life  school  had  quite  cured  him  of  that  pur- 
poseless indecision  of  touch  which  often  characterizes 
the  prentice  hand  for  years  of  apprenticeship,  and  re- 
mains with  the  amateur  for  life.  The  lightest  and 
most  careless  of  his  pencil  strokes  had  a  precision  that 
was  inimitable,  and  a  charm  that  specially  belonged 
to  him,  and  was  easy  to  recognize  at  a  glance.  His 
touch  on  either  canvas  or  paper  was  like  Svengali's 
on  the  key-board — unique. 

As  the  morning  ripened  little  attempts  at  conversa- 
tion were  made — little  breakings  of  the  ice  of  silence. 
It  was  Lambert,  a  youth  with  a  singularly  facetious 
face,  who  first  woke  the  stillness  with  the  following  un- 
called-for remarks  in  English  very  badly  pronounced : 

"  Av  you  seen  my  fahzere's  ole  shoes  ?" 

"  I  av  not  seen  your  fahzere's  ole  shoes." 

Then,  after  a  pause : 

"  Av  you  seen  my  fahzere's  ole  'at  ?" 

"  I  av  not  seen  your  fahzere's  old  'at !" 

Presently  another  said,  "  Je  trouve  qu'il  a  une  jolie 
tete,  PAnglais." 

But  I  will  put  it  all  into  English: 

"  I  find  that  he  has  a  pretty  head — the  Englishman  ! 
What  say  you,  Barizel  ?" 

"  Yes ;  but  why  has  he  got  eyes  like  brandy- balls, 
two  a  penny  ?" 

"  Because  he's  an  Englishman !" 

"  Yes ;  but  why  has  he  got  a  mouth  like  a  guinea- 
pig,  with  two  big  teeth  in  front  like  the  double  blank 
at  dominos  ?" 

"  Because  he's  an  Englishman !" 

"Yes;   but  why  has  he  got  a  back  without  any 


82 

oend  in  it,  as  if  he'd  swallowed  the  Colonne  Vendome 
as  far  up  as  the  battle  of  Austerlitz  ?" 

"  Because  he's  an  Englishman  !" 

And  so  on,  till  all  the  supposed  characteristics  of 
Little  Billee's  outer  man  were  exhausted.  Then : 

"  Papelard !" 

"What?" 

"/should  like  to  know  if  the  Englishman  says  his 
prayers  before  going  to  bed." 

"  Ask  him." 

"Ask  him  yourself!" 

"/should  like  to  know  if  the  Englishman  has  sis- 
ters ;  and  if  so,  how  old  and  how  many  and  what 
sex." 

"Ask  him." 

"  Ask  him  yourself !" 

"  /  should  like  to  know  the  detailed  and  circum- 
stantial history  of  the  Englishman's  first  love,  and 
how  he  lost  his  innocence !" 

"  Ask  him,"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Little  Billee,  conscious  that  he  was  the  object  of 
conversation,  grew  somewhat  nervous.  Soon  he  was 
addressed  directly. 

"  Dites  done,  1' Anglais?" 

"  Kwaw  ?"  said  Little  Billee. 

"  Avez-vous  une  sceur  ?" 

"  Wee." 

"Est-ce  qu'elle  vous  ressemble?" 

"Nong." 

"  C'est  bien  dommage !  Est-ce  qu'elle  dit  ses  prieres, 
le  soir,  en  se  couchant  ?" 

A  fierce  look  came  into  Little  Billee's  eves  and  a 


redness  to  his  cheeks,  and  this  particular  form  of 
overture  to  friendship  was  abandoned. 

Presently  Lambert  said,  "  Si  nous  mettions  1' Anglais 
ul'echelle?" 

Little  Billee,  who  had  been  warned,  knew  what  this 
ordeal  meant. 

They  tied  you  to  a  ladder,  and  carried  you  in  pro- 
cession up  and  down  the  court-yard,  and  if  you  were 
nasty  about  it  they  put  you  under  the  pump. 

During  the  next  rest  it  was  explained  to  him  that 
he  must  submit  to  this  indignity,  and  the  ladder  (which 
was  used  for  reaching  the  high  shelves  round  the  stu- 
dio) was  got  ready. 

Little  Billee  smiled  a  singularly  winning  smile,  and 
suffered  himself  to  be  bound  with  such  good -humor 
that  they  voted  it  wasn't  amusing,  and  unbound  him, 
and  he  escaped  the  ordeal  by  ladder. 

Taffy  had  also  escaped,  but  in  another  way.  When 
they  tried  to  seize  him  he  took  up  the  first  rapin  that 
came  to  hand,  and,  using  him  as  a  kind  of  club,  he 
swung  him  about  so  freely  and  knocked  down  so  many 
students  and  easels  and  drawing-boards  with  him,  and 
made  such  a  terrific  rumpus,  that  the  whole  studio  had 
to  cry  for  "  pax !"  Then  he  performed  feats  of  strength 
of  such  a  surprising  kind  that  the  memory  of  him  re- 
mained in  Carrel's  studio  for  years,  and  he  became  a 
legend,  a  tradition,  a  myth !  It  is  now  said  (in  what 
still  remains  of  the  quartier  latin)  that  he  was  seven 
feet  high,  and  used  to  juggle  with  the  massier  and 
model  as  with  a  pair  of  billiard  balls,  using  only  his 
left  hand ! 

To  return  to  Little  Billee.     When  it  struck  twelve, 


b4 

the  cakes  and  rum  punch  arrived — a  very  goodly  sight 
that  put  every  one  in  a  good  temper. 

The  cakes  were  of  three  kinds — Babas,  Madeleines, 
and  Savarins — three  sous  apiece,  fourpence  half-penny 
the  set  of  three.  No  nicer  cakes  are  made  in  France, 
and  they  are  as  good  in  the  quartier  latin  as  anywhere 
else  ;  no  nicer  cakes  are  made  in  the  whole  world,  that 
I  know  of.  You  must  begin  with  the  Madeleine,  which 
is  rich  and  rather  heavy ;  then  the  Baba ;  and  finish 
up  with  the  Savarin,  which  is  shaped  like  a  ring,  very 
light,  and  flavored  with  rum.  And  then  you  must 
really  leave  off. 

The  rum  punch  was  tepid,  very  sweet,  and  not  a  bit 
too  strong. 

They  dragged  the  model-throne  into  the  middle,  and 
a  chair  was  put  on  for  Little  Billee,  who  dispensed  his 
hospitality  in  a  very  polite  and  attractive  manner, 
helping  the  maseier  first,  and  then  the  other  gray- 
beards  in  the  order  of  their  grayness,  and  so  on  down 
to  the  model. 

Presently,  just  as  he  was  about  to  help  himself,  he 
was  asked  to  sing  them  an  English  song.  After  a  lit- 
tle pressing  he  sang  them  a  song  about  a  gay  cavalier 
who  went  to  serenade  his  mistress  (and  a  ladder  of 
ropes,  and  a  pair  of  masculine  gloves  that  didn't  be- 
long to  the  gay  cavalier,  but  which  he  found  in  his 
lady's  bower) — a  poor  sort  of  song,  but  it  was  the 
nearest  approach  to  a  comic  song  he  knew.  There  are 
four  verses  to  it,  and  each  verse  is  rather  long.  It 
does  not  sound  at  all  funny  to  a  French  audience,  and 
even  with  an  English  one  Little  Billee  was  not  good 
at  comic  songs. 


86 

lie  was,  however,  much  applauded  at  the  end  of 
each  verse.  When  he  had  finished,  he  was  asked  if 
he  were  quits  sure  there  wasn't  any  more  of  it,  and 
they  expressed  a  deep  regret ;  and  then  each  student, 
straddling  on  his  little  thick-set  chair  as  on  a  horse, 
and  clasping  the  back  of  it  in  both  hands,  galloped 
round  Little  Billee's  throne  quite  seriously — the  strang- 
est procession  he  had  ever  seen.  It  made  him  laugh 
till  he  cried,  so  that  he  couldn't  eat  or  drink. 

Then  he  served  more  punch  and  cake  all  round; 
and  just  as  he  was  going  to  begin  himself,  Papelard 
said: 

"  Say,  you  others,  I  find  that  the  Englishman  has 
something  of  truly  distinguished  in  the  voice,  some- 
thing of  sympathetic,  of  touching  —  something  of  je 
ne  sais  quoi  /" 

Bouchardy :  "  Yes,  yes — something oije ne sais quoi! 
That's  the  very  phrase — n'est-ce  pas,  vous  autres,  that 
is  a  good  phrase  that  Papelard  has  just  invented  to 
describe  the  voice  of  the  Englishman.  He  is  very 
intelligent,  Papelard." 

Chorus :  "  Perfect,  perfect ;  he  has  the  genius  of 
characterization,  Papelard.  Dites  done,  1'Anglais ! 
once  more  that  beautiful  song — hem  ?  Nous  vous  en 
prions  tous." 

Little  Billee  willingly  sang  it  again,  with  even  great- 
er applause,  and  again  they  galloped,  but  the  other 
way  round  and  faster,  so  that  Little  Billee  became 
quite  hysterical,  and  laughed  till  his  sides  ached. 

Then  Dubosc :  "  I  find  there  is  something  of  very 
capitous  and  exciting  in  English  music — of  very  stim- 
ulating. And  you,  Bouchardy  ?" 


87 

Bouchardy :  "  Oh,  me !  It  is  above  all  the  words 
that  I  admire ;  they  have  something  of  passionate, 
of  romantic  —  'ze-ese  gla-aves,  zese  gla-aves —  zey  do 
not  belong  to  me.'  I  don't  know  what  that  means, 
but  I  love  that  sort  of — of — of—je  ne  sais  quoi,  in 
short !  Just  once  more,  PAnglais ;  only  once,  the  four 
couplets." 

So  he  sang  it  a  third  time,  all  four  verses,  while 
they  leisurely  ate  and  drank  and  smoked  and  looked 
at  each  other,  nodding  solemn  commendation  of  cer- 
tain phrases  in  the  song :  "  Tres  bien !"  "  Tres  bien !" 
"  Ah !  voila  qui  est  bien  reussi !"  "  £patant,  ya !" 
"  Tres  fin !"  etc.,  etc.  For,  stimulated  by  success,  and 
rising  to  the  occasion,  he  did  his  very  utmost  to  sur- 
pass himself  in  emphasis  of  gesture  and  accent  and 
histrionic  drollery — heedless  of  the  fact  that  not  one 
of  his  listeners  had  the  slightest  notion  what  his  song 
was  about. 

It  was  a  sorry  performance. 

And  it  was  not  till  he  had  sung  it  four  times  that 
he  discovered  the  whole  thing  was  an  elaborate  im- 
promptu farce,  of  which  he  was  the  butt,  and  that  of 
all  his  royal  spread  not  a  crumb  or  a  drop  was  left  for 
himself. 

It  was  the  old  fable  of  the  fox  and  the  crow! 
And  to  do  him  justice,  he  laughed  as  heartily  as 
any  one,  as  if  he  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  joke — and 
when  you  take  jokes  in  that  way  people  soon  leave 
off  poking  fun  at  you.  It  is  almost  as  good  as 
being  very  big,  like  Taffy,  and  having  a  choleric  blue 


eye 


Such  was  Little  Billee's  first  experience  of  Carrel's 


88 

studio,  where   he  spent  many  happy  mornings  and 
made  many  good  friends. 

No  more  popular  student  had  ever  worked  there 
within  the  memory  of  the  grayest  graybeards ;  none 
more  amiable,  more  genial,  more  cheerful,  self-respect 
ing,  considerate,  and  polite,  and  certainly  none  with 
greater  gifts  for  art. 

Carrel  would  devote  at  least  fifteen  minutes  to  him, 
and  invited  him  often  to  his  own  private  studio.  And 
often,  on  the  fourth  and  fifth  day  of  the  week,  a  group 
of  admiring  students  would  be  gathered  by  his  easel 
watching  him  as  he  worked. 

"  C'est  un  rude  lapin,  1' Anglais !  au  moins  il  sait  son 
orthographe  en  peinture,  ce  coco-la !" 

Such  was  the  verdict  on  Little  Billee  at  Carrel's 
studio ;  and  I  can  conceive  no  loftier  praise. 


Young  as  she  was  (seventeen  or  eighteen,  or  there- 
abouts), and  also  tender  (like  Little  Billee),  Trilby  had 
singularly  clear  and  quick  perceptions  in  all  matters 
that  concerned  her  tastes,  fancies,  or  affections,  and 
thoroughly  knew  her  own  mind,  and  never  lost  much 
time  in  making  it  up. 

On  the  occasion  of  her  first  visit  to  the  studio  in  the 
Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  it  took  her  just  five  min- 
utes to  decide  that  it  was  quite  the  nicest,  homeliest, 
genialest,  jolliest  studio  in  the  whole  quartier  latin, 
or  out  of  it,  and  its  three  inhabitants,  individually  and 
collectively,  were  more  to  her  taste  than  any  one  else 
she  had  ever  met. 


90 

In  the  first  place,  they  were  English,  and  she  loved 
to  hear  her  mother-tongue  and  speak  it.  It  awoke  all 
manner  of  tender  recollections,  sweet  reminiscences  of 
her  childhood,  her  parents,  her  old  home — such  a  home 
as  it  was — or,  rather,  such  homes ;  for  there  had  been 
many  flittings  from  one  poor  nest  to  another.  The 
O'Ferralls  had  been  as  birds  on  the  bough. 

She  had  loved  her  parents  very  dearly  ;  and,  indeed, 
with  all  their  faults,  they  had  many  endearing  quali- 
ties— the  qualities  that  so  often  go  with  those  partic- 
ular faults  —  charm,  geniality,  kindness,  warmth  of 
heart,  the  constant  wish  to  please,  the  generosity  that 
comes  before  justice,  and  lends  its  last  sixpence  and 
forgets  to  pay  its  debts  ! 

She  knew  other  English  and  American  artists,  and 
had  sat  to  them  frequently  for  the  head  and  hands ; 
but  none  of  these,  for  general  agreeableness  of  aspect 
or  manner,  could  compare  in  her  mind  with  the  stal- 
wart and  magnificent  Taffy,  the  jolly  fat  Laird  of 
Cockpen,  the  refined,  sympathetic,  and  elegant  Little 
Billee ;  and  she  resolved  that  she  would  see  as  much 
of  them  as  she  could,  that  she  would  make  herself  at 
home  in  that  particular  studio,  and  necessary  to  its 
"  locataires  " ;  and,  without  being  the  least  bit  vain  or 
self-conscious,  she  had  no  doubts  whatever  of  her  pow- 
er to  please  —  to  make  herself  both  useful  and  orna- 
mental if  it  suited  her  purpose  to  do  so. 

Her  first  step  in  this  direction  was  to  borrow  Pere 
Martin's  basket  and  lantern  and  pick  (he  had  more 
than  one  set  of  these  trade  properties)  for  the  use  of 
Taffy,  whom  she  feared  she  might  have  offended  by 
the  freedom  of  her  comments  on  his  picture. 


91 

Then,  as  often  as  she  felt  it  to  be  discreet,  she  sound- 
ed  her  war  -  cry  at  the  studio  door  and  went  in  and 
made  kind  inquiries,  and,  sitting  cross-legged  on  the 
model-throne,  ate  her  bread  and  cheese  and  smoked  her 
cigarette  and  "  passed  the  time  of  day,"  as  she  chose 
to  call  it ;  telling  them  all  such  news  of  the  quartier 
as  had  come  within  her  own  immediate  ken.  She 
was  always  full  of  little  stories  of  other  studios,  which, 
to  do  her  justice,  were  always  good-natured,  and  prob- 
ably true — quite  so,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned ;  she 
was  the  most  literal  person  alive;  and  she  told  all 
these  "  ragots,  cancans,  et  potins  d'atelier  "  in  a  quaint 
and  amusing  manner.  The  slightest  look  of  gravity 
or  boredom  on  one  of  those  three  faces,  and  she  made 
herself  scarce  at  once. 

She  soon  found  opportunities  for  usefulness  also. 
If  a  costume  were  wanted,  for  instance,  she  knew 
where  to  borrow  it,  or  hire  it  or  buy  it  cheaper 
than  any  one  anywhere  else.  She  procured  stuffs  for 
them  at  cost  price,  as  it  seemed,  and  made  them  into 
draperies  and  female  garments  of  any  kind  that  was 
wanted,  and  sat  in  them  for  the  toreador's  sweetheart 
(she  made  the  mantilla  herself),  for  Taffy's  starving 
dress-maker  about  to  throw  herself  into  the  Seine,  for 
Little  Billee's  studies  of  the  beautiful  French  peasant 
girl  in  his  picture,  now  so  famous,  called  "  The  Pitcher 
Goes  to  the  Well." 

Then  she  darned  their  socks  and  mended  their 
clothes,  and  got  all  their  washing  done  properly  and 
cheaply  at  her  friend  Madame  Boisse's,  in  the  Rue  des 
Cloitres  Ste.  Petronille. 

And  then  again,  when  they  were  hard  up  and  want- 


ed  a  good  round  sum  of  money  for  some  little  pleas- 
ure excursion,  such  as  a  trip  to  Fontainebleau  or  Bar- 
bizon  for  two  or  three  days,  it  was  she  who  took  their 
watches  and  scarf-pins  and  things  to  the  Mount  of 
Piety  in  the  Street  of  the  Well  of  Love  (where  dwelt 


"ma  tante,"  which  is 
French  for  "  my  uncle  " 
in  this  connection),  in 
order  to  raise  the  neces- 
sary funds. 

She  was,  of  course, 
most  liberally  paid  for 
all  these  little  services, 
rendered  with  such  pleas- 
ure and  good -will  —  far 

too   liberally,  she   thought.     She   would   have   been 

really  happier  doing  them  for  love. 

Thus  in  a  very  short  time  she  became  a  persona 

gratissima — a  sunny  and  ever  welcome  vision  of  health 

and  grace  and  liveliness  and  unalterable  good-humor. 


THK    LATIN    QUARTER 


93 

always  ready  to  take  any  trouble  to  please  her  beloved 
"  Angliches,"  as  they  were  called  by  Madame  Yinard, 
the  handsome  shrill- voiced  concierge,  who  was  almost 
jealous ;  for  she  was  devoted  to  the  Angliches  too — 
and  so  was  Monsieur  Vinard — and  so  were  the  little 
Vinards. 

She  knew  when  to  talk  and  when  to  laugh  and  when 
to  hold  her  tongue ;  and  the  sight  of  her  sitting  cross- 
legged  on  the  model-throne  darning  the  Laird's  socks 
or  sewing  buttons  on  his  shirts  or  repairing  the  smoke- 
holes  in  his  trousers  was  so  pleasant  that  it  was  paint- 
ed by  all  three.  One  of  these  sketches  (in  water-color, 
by  Little  Billee)  sold  the  other  day  at  Christie's  for 
a  sum  so  large  that  I  hardly  dare  to  mention  it.  It 
was  done  in  an  afternoon. 

Sometimes  on  a  rainy  day,  when  it  was  decided 
they  should  dine  at  home,  she  would  fetch  the  food 
and  cook  it,  and  lay  the  cloth,  and  even  make  the 
salad.  She  was  a  better  saladist  than  Taffy,  a  better 
cook  than  the  Laird,  a  better  caterer  than  Little  Billee. 
And  she  would  be  invited  to  take  her  share  in  the  ban- 
quet. And  on  these  occasions  her  tremulous  happiness 
was  so  immense  that  it  would  be  quite  pathetic  to  see 
— almost  painful ;  and  their  three  British  hearts  were 
touched  by  thoughts  of  all  the  loneliness  and  home- 
lessness,  the  expatriation,  the  half -conscious  loss  of 
caste,  that  all  this  eager  childish  clinging  revealed. 

And  that  is  why  (no  doubt)  that  with  all  this  fa- 
miliar intimacy  there  was  never  any  hint  of  gallantry 
or  flirtation  in  any  shape  or  form  whatever — bonne 
camaraderie,  voila  tout.  Had  she  been  Little  Billee's 
sister  she  could  not  have  been  treated  with  more  real 


94 

respect.  And  her  deep  gratitude  for  this  unwonted 
compliment  transcended  any  passion  she  had  ever  felt. 
As  the  good  Lafontaine  so  prettily  says, 

"  Ces  animaux  vivaient  entre  eux  comme  cousins ; 
Ccttc  union  si  douce,  et  presque  fraternelle, 
Editiait  tous  les  voisins  1" 

And  then  their  talk !  It  was  to  her  as  the  talk  of 
the  gods  in  Olympus,  save  that  it  was  easier  to  under- 
stand, and  she  could  always  understand  it.  For  she 
was  a  very  intelligent  person,  in  spite  of  her  wofully 
neglected  education,  and  most  ambitious  to  learn — a 
new  ambition  for  her. 

So  they  lent  her  books  —  English  books:  Dickens, 
Thackeray,  Walter  Scott — which  she  devoured  in  the 
silence  of  the  night,  the  solitude  of  her  little  attic  in 
the  Rue  des  Pousse-Cailloux,  and  new  worlds  were  re- 
vealed to  her.  She  grew  more  English  every  day; 
and  that  was  a  good  thing. 

Trilby  speaking  English  and  Trilby  speaking  French 
were  two  different  beings.  Trilby's  English  was 
more  or  less  that  of  her  father,  a  highly -educated 
man ;  her  mother,  who  was  a  Scotch  woman,  although 
an  uneducated  one,  had  none  of  the  ungainliness  that 
mars  the  speech  of  so  many  English  women  in  that 
humble  rank — no  droppings  of  the  h,  no  broadening 
of  the  o's  and  a's. 

Trilby's  French  was  that  of  the  quartier  latin — 
droll,  slangy,  piquant,  quaint,  picturesque  —  quite  the 
reverse  of  ungainly,  but  in  which  there  was  scarcely  a 
turn  of  phrase  that  would  not  stamp  the  speaker  as 


06 

being  hopelessly,  emphatically  "  no  lady !"  Though 
it  was  funny  without  being  vulgar,  it  was  perhaps  a 
little  too  funny ! 

And  she  handled  her  knife  and  fork  in  the  dainty 
English  way,  as  no  doubt  her  father  had  done — and 
his;  and,  indeed,  when  alone  with  them  she  was  so 
absolutely  "like  a  lady"  that  it  seemed  quite  odd 
(though  very  seductive)  to  see  her  in  a  grisette's  cap 
and  dress  and  apron.  So  much  for  her  English  train- 
ing. 

But  enter  a  Frenchman  or  two,  and  a  transforma- 
tion effected  itself  immediately — a  new  incarnation  of 
Trilbyness — so  droll  and  amusing  that  it  was  difficult 
to  decide  which  of  her  two  incarnations  was  the  most 
attractive. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  she  had  her  faults— like 
Little  Billee. 

For  instance,  she  would  be  miserably  jealous  of  any 
other  woman  who  came  to  the  studio,  to  sit  or  scrub 
or  sweep  or  do  anything  else,  even  of  the  dirty  tipsy 
old  hag  who  sat  for  Taffy's  "found  drowned" — "as  if 
she  couldn't  have  sat  for  it  herself !" 

And  then  she  would  be  cross  and  sulky,  but  not  for 
long — an  injured  martyr,  soon  ready  to  forgive  and 
be  forgiven. 

She  would  give  up  any  sitting  to  come  and  sit  to 
her  three  English  friends.  Even  Durien  had  serious 
cause  for  complaint. 

Then  her  affection  was  exacting:  she  always  wanted 
to  be  told  one  was  fond  of  her,  and  she  dearly  loved 
her  own  way,  even  in  the  sewing  on  of  buttons  and 
the  darning  of  socks,  which  was  innocent  enough. 


97 

But  when  it  came  to  the  cutting  and  fashioning  of 
garments  for  a  toreador's  bride,  it  was  a  nuisance  not 
to  be  borne ! 

"  What  could  she  know  of  toreadors'  brides  and 
their  wedding-dresses?"  the  Laird  would  indignantly 
ask — as  if  he  were  a  toreador  himself ;  and  this  was 
the  aggravating  side  of  her  irrepressible  Trilbyness. 

In  the  caressing,  demonstrative  tenderness  of  her 
friendship  she  "made  the  soft  eyes"  at  all  three  in- 
discriminately. But  sometimes  Little  Billee  would 
look  up  from  his  work  as  she  was  sitting  to  Taffy  or 
the  Laird,  and  find  her  gray  eyes  fixed  on  him  with 
an  all-enfolding  gaze,  so  piercingly,  penetratingly,  un- 
utterably sweet  and  kind  and  tender,  such  a  brooding, 
dovelike  look  of  soft  and  warm  solicitude,  that  he 
would  feel  a  flutter  at  his  heart,  and  his  hand  wouWl 
shake  so  that  he  could  not  paint ;  and  in  a  waking 
dream  he  would  remember  that  his  mother  had  often 
looked  at  him  like  that  when  he  was  a  small  boy,  and 
she  a  beautiful  young  woman  untouched  by  care  or 
sorrow ;  and  the  tear  that  always  lay  in  readiness  so 
close  to  the  corner  of  Little  Billee's  eye  would  find 
it  very  difficult  to  keep  itself  in  its  proper  place — 
unshed. 

And  at  such  moments  the  thought  that  Trilby  sat 
for  the  figure  would  go  through  him  like  a  knife. 

She  did  not  sit  promiscuously  to  anybody  who 
asked,  it  is  true.  But  she  still  sat  to  Durien ;  to  the 
great  Gerome ;  to  H.  Carrel,  who  scarcely  used  any 
other  model. 

It  was  poor  Trilby's  sad  distinction  that  she  sur- 
passed all  other  models  as  Calypso  surpassed  her 


nymphs ;  and  whether  by  long  habit,  or  through  some 
obtuseness  in  her  nature,  or  lack  of  imagination,  she 
was  equally  unconscious  of  self  with  her  clothes  on  or 
without !  Truly,  she  could  be  naked  and  unashamed 

— in  this  respect  an 
absolute  savage. 

She  would  have 
ridden  through  Cov- 
entry, like  Lad}7 


"  THE    SOFT   EYES  " 


Godiva — but  without  giving  it  a  thought  beyond  won- 
dering why  the  streets  were  empty  and  the  shops 
closed  and  the  blinds  pulled  down — would  even  have 
looked  up  to  Peeping  Tom's  shutter  with  a  friendly 
nod,  had  she  known  he  was  behind  it ! 

In  fact,  she  was  absolutely  without  that  kind  of 


99 

shame,  as  she  was  without  any  kind  of  fear.  But  she 
was  destined  soon  to  know  both  fear  and  shame. 

And  here  it  would  not  be  amiss  for  me  to  state  a 
fact  well  known  to  all  painters  and  sculptors  who 
have  used  the  nude  model  (except  a  few  senile  pre- 
tenders, whose  purity,  not  being  of  the  right  sort,  has 
gone  rank  from  too  much  watching),  namely,  that 
nothing  is  so  chaste  as  nudity.  Venus  herself,  as  she 
drops  her  garments  and  steps  on  to  the  model-throne, 
leaves  behind  her  on  the  floor  every  weapon  in  her 
armory  by  which  she  can  pierce  to  the  grosser  pas- 
sions of  man.  The  more  perfect  her  unveiled  beauty, 
the  more  keenly  it  appeals  to  his  higher  instincts. 
And  where  her  beauty  fails  (as  it  almost  always  does 
somewhere  in  the  Yenuses  who  sit  for  hire),  the  fail- 
ure is  so  lamentably  conspicuous  in  the  studio  light — 
the  fierce  light  that  beats  on  this  particular  throne — 
that  Don  Juan  himself,  who  has  not  got  to  paint,  were 
fain  to  hide  his  eyes  in  sorrow  and  disenchantment, 
and  fly  to  other  climes. 

All  beauty  is  sexless  in  the  eyes  of  the  artist  at  his 
work — the  beauty  of  man,  the  beauty  of  woman,  the 
heavenly  beauty  of  the  child,  which  is  the  sweetest 
and  best  of  all. 

Indeed  it  is  woman,  lovely  woman,  whose  beauty 
falls  the  shortest,  for  sheer  lack  of  proper  physical 
training. 

As  for  Trilby,  G ,  to  whom  she  sat  for  his 

Phryne,  once  told  me  that  the  sight  of  her  thus  was 
a  thing  to  melt  Sir  Galahad,  and  sober  Silenus,  and 
chasten  Jove  himself — a  thing  to  Quixotize  a  modern 
French  masher !  I  can  well  believe  him.  For  myself. 


100 

I  only  speak  of  Trilby  as  I  have  seen  her — clothed 
and  in  her  right  mind.  She  never  sat  to  me  for  any 
Phryne,  never  bared  herself  to  me,  nor  did  I  ever 
dream  of  asking  her.  I  would  as  soon  have  asked 
the  Queen  of  Spain  to  let  me  paint  her  legs!  But 
I  have  worked  from  many  female  models  in  many 
countries,  some  of  them  the  best  of  their  kind.  I 
have  also,  like  Svengali,  seen  Taffy  "trying  to  get 
himself  clean/'  either  at  home  or  in  the  swimming- 
baths  of  the  Seine;  and  never  a  sitting  woman 
among  them  all  who  could  match  for  grace  or  finish 
or  splendor  of  outward  form  that  mighty  Yorkshire- 
man  sitting  in  his  tub,  or  sunning  himself,  like  Ilyssus, 
at  the  Bains  Henri  Quatre,  or  taking  his  running  head- 
er d  la  hussarde,  off  the  spring-board  at  the  Bains  De- 
ligny,  with  a  group  of  wondering  Frenchmen  gath- 
ered round. 

Up  he  shot  himself  into  mid-air  with  a  sounding 
double  downward  kick,  parabolically ;  then,  turning 
a  splendid  semi-demi-summersault  against  the  sky, 
down  he  came  headlong,  his  body  straight  and  stiff  as 
an  arrow,  and  made  his  clean  hole  in  the  water  with- 
out splash  or  sound,  to  reappear  a  hundred  yards  far- 
ther on ! 

"  Sac  si  papier !  quel  gaillard  que  cet  Anglais,  hem  ?" 

"  A-t-on  jamais  vu  un  torse  pareil !" 

'•  Et  les  bras,  done  !" 

"  Et  les  jambes,  nom  d'un  tonnerre !" 

"  Matin !  J'aimerais  mieux  etre  en  colere  centre  lui 
qu'il  ne  soit  en  colere  contre  moi !"  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 

Omne  ignotum  pro  magnifico  1 


101 


If  our  climate  were  such  that  we  could  go  about 
without  any  clothes  on,  we  probably  should ;  in  which 
case,  although  we  should  still  murder  and  lie  and  steal 
and  bear  false  witness  against  our  neighbor,  and  break 
the  Sabbath  day  and  take  the  Lord's  name  in  vain, 
much  deplorable  wickedness  of  another  kind  would 
cease  to  exist  for  sheer  lack  of  mystery ;  and  Chris- 
tianity would  be  relieved  of  its  hardest  task  in  this  sin- 
ful world,  and  Venus  Aphrodite  (alias  Aselgeia)  would 


have  to  go  a-begging  along  with  the  tailors  and  dress- 
makers and  boot-makers,  and  perhaps  our  bodies  and 
limbs  would  be  as  those  of  the  Theseus  and  Venus  of 
Milo;  who  was  no  Venus,  except  in  good  looks! 

8 


102 

At  all  events,  there  would  be  no  cunning,  cruel  de- 
ceptions, no  artful  taking  in  of  artless  inexperience, 
no  unduly  hurried  waking -up  from  Love's  young 
dream,  no  handing  down  to  posterity  of  hidden  ugli- 
nesses and  weaknesses,  and  worse ! 

And  also  many  a  flower,  now  born  to  blush  unseen, 
would  be  reclaimed  from  its  desert,  and  suffered  to 
hold  its  own,  and  flaunt  away  with  the  best  in  the 
inner  garden  of  roses! 

And  here  let  me  humbly  apologize  to  the  casual 
reader  for  the  length  and  possible  irrelevancy  of  this 
digression,  and  for  its  subject.  To  those  who  may 
find  matter  for  sincere  disapprobation  or  even  grave 
offence  in  a  thing  that  has  always  seemed  to  me  so 
simple,  so  commonplace,  as  to  be  hardly  worth  talk- 
ing or  writing  about,  I  can  only  plead  a  sincerity 
equal  to  theirs,  and  as  deep  a  love  and  reverence  for 
the  gracious,  goodly  shape  that  God  is  said  to  have 
made  after  His  own  image  for  inscrutable  purposes 
of  His  own. 

Nor,  indeed,  am  I  pleading  for  such  a  subversive 
and  revolutionary  measure  as  the  wholesale  abolition 
of  clothes,  being  the  chilliest  of  mortals,  and  quite  un- 
like Mr.  Theseus  or  Mr.  Ilyssus  either. 

Sometimes  Trilby  would  bring  her  little  brother  to 
the  studio  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  in  his 
"beaux  habits  de  Paques,"  his  hair  well  curled  and 
pomatumed,  his  hands  and  face  well  washed. 

He  was  a  very  engaging  little  mortal.  The  Laird 
would  fill  his  pockets  full  of  Scotch  goodies,  and  paint 
him  as  a  little  Spaniard  in  "Le  Fils  du  Toreador,"  a 


103 

*weet  little  Spaniard  with  blue  eyes,  and  curly  locks 
as  light  as  tow,  and  a  complexion  of  milk  and  roses, 
in  singular  and  piquant  contrast  to  his  swarthy  pro- 
genitor. 

Taffy  would  use  him  as  an  Indian  club  or  a  dumb- 
bell, to  the  child's  infinite  delight,  and  swing  him  on 
the  trapeze,  and  teach  him  "  la  boxe." 

And  the  sweetness  and  fun  of  his  shrill,  happy,  in- 
fantile laughter  (which  was  like  an  echo  of  Trilby's, 
only  an  octave  higher)  so  moved  and  touched  and 
tickled  one  that  Taffy  had  to  look  quite  fierce,  so  he 
might  hide  the  strange  delight  of  tenderness  that 
somehow  filled  his  manly  bosom  at  the  mere  sound 
of  it  (lest  Little  Billee  and  the  Laird  should  think 
him  goody-goody) ;  and  the  fiercer  Taffy  looked,  the 
less  this  small  mite  was  afraid  of  him. 

Little  Billee  made  a  beautiful  water-color  sketch  of 
him,  just  as  he  was,  and  gave  it  to  Trilby,  who  gave 
it  to  le  pere  Martin,  who  gave  it  to  his  wife  with 
strict  injunctions  not  to  sell  it  as  an  old  master. 
Alas!  it  is  an  old  master  now,  and  Heaven  only 
knows  who  has  got  it ! 

Those  were  happy  days  for  Trilby's  little  brother, 
happy  days  for  Trilby,  who  was  immensely  fond  of 
him,  and  very  proud.  And  the  happiest  day  of  all 
was  when  Trois  Angliches  took  Trilby  and  Jean- 
not  (for  so  the  mite  was  called)  to  spend  the  Sunday 
in  the  woods  at  Meudon,  and  breakfast  and  dine  at 
the  garde  champetre's.  Swings,  peep-shows,  donkey- 
rides  ;  shooting  at  a  mark  with  cross-bows  and  little 
pellets  of  clay,  and  smashing  little  plaster  figures  and 
winning  macaroons ;  losing  one's  self  in  the  beautiful 


104 

forest ;  catching  newts  and  tadpoles  and  young  frogs ; 
making  music  on  mirlitons.  Trilby  singing  "  Ben 
Bolt "  into  a  mirliton  was  a  thing  to  be  remembered, 
whether  one  would  or  no  ! 

Trilby  on  this  occasion  came  out  in  a  new  charac- 
ter, en  demoiselle,  with  a  little  black  bonnet,  and  a 
gray  jacket  of  her  own  making. 

To  look  at  (but  for  her  loose,  square-toed,  heelless 
silk  boots  laced  up  the  inner  side),  she  might  have 
been  the  daughter  of  an  English  dean — until  she  un- 
dertook to  teach  the  Laird  some  favorite  cancan  steps. 
And  then  the  Laird  himself,  it  must  be  admitted,  no 
longer  looked  like  the  son  of  a  worthy,  God-fearing. 
Sabbath-keeping  Scotch  solicitor. 

This  was  after  dinner,  in  the  garden,  at  "  la  loge 
du  garde  champetre."  Taffy  and  Jeannot  and  Little 
Billee  made  the  necessary  music  on  their  mirlitons, 
and  the  dancing  soon  became  general,  with  plenty 
also  to  look  on,  for  the  garde  had  many  customers 
who  dined  there  on  summer  Sundays. 

It  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  Trilby  was  far 
and  away  the  belle  of  that  particular  ball,  and  there 
have  been  worse  balls  in  much  finer  company,  and 
far  plainer  women ! 

Trilby  lightly  dancing  the  cancan  (there  are  can- 
cans and  cancans)  was  a  singularly  gainly  and  seduc- 
tive person — et  vera  incessu  patuit  dea  !  Here,  again, 
she  was  funny  without  being  vulgar.  And  for  mere 
grace  (even  in  the  cancan),  she  was  the  forerunner  of 
Miss  Kate  Vaughan ;  and,  for  sheer  fun,  the  precursor 
of  Miss  Nelly  Farren  ! 

And  the  Laird,  trying  to  dance  after  her  ("dongsong 


105 


le  konkong,"  as  he  called  it),  was  too  funny  for  words ; 
and  if  genuine  popular  success  is  a  true  test  of  humor, 
no  greater  humorist  ever  danced  &pas  seul 


"  '  TOIL!  L'ESPAYCE  DE  HOM  KJLR  JER  SWKK  !'  " 

What  Englishmen  could  do  in  France  during  the 
fifties,  and  yet  manage  to  preserve  their  self-respect, 
and  even  the  respect  of  their  respectable  French 
friends ! 

"  Yoila  1'espayce  de  horn  ker  jer  swee !"  said  the 
Laird,  every  time  he  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of  the 


106 

applause  that  greeted  his  performance  of  various  solo 
steps  of  his  own — Scotch  reels  and  sword-dances  that 
come  in  admirably.  .  .  . 

Then,  one  fine  day,  the  Laird  fell  ill,  and  the  doctor 
had  to  be  sent  for,  and  he  ordered  a  nurse.  But  Trilby 
would  hear  of  no  nurses,  not  even  a  Sister  of  Charity  ! 
She  did  all  the  nursing  herself,  and  never  slept  a  wink 
for  three  successive  days  and  nights. 

On  the  third  day  the  Laird  was  out  of  all  danger, 
the  delirium  was  past,  and  the  doctor  found  poor 
Trilby  fast  asleep  by  the  bedside. 

Madame  Vinard,  at  the  bedroom  door,  put  her  finger 
to  her  lips,  and  whispered :  "  Quel  bonheur !  il  est 
sauve,  M.  le  Docteur;  e"coutez!  il  dit  ses  prieres  en 
Anglais,  ce  brave  garyon !" 

The  good  old  doctor,  who  didn't  understand  a  word 
of  English,  listened,  and  heard  the  Laird's  voice,  weak 
and  low,  but  quite  clear,  and  full  of  heart-felt  fervor, 
intoning,  solemnly : 

"  'Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffron, 
Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace — 
All  these  you  eat  at  Terre's  Tavern 
In  that  one  dish  of  bouillabaisse  1' " 

"  Ah !  mais  c'est  tres  bien  de  sa  part,  ce  brave  jeune 
homme !  rendre  graces  au  ciel  comme  cela,  quand  le 
danger  est  passe!  tres  bien,  tres  bien !" 

Sceptic  and  Voltairian  as  he  was,  and  not  the  friend 
of  prayer,  the  good  doctor  was  touched,  for  he  was 
old,  and  therefore  kind  and  tolerant,  and  made  allow- 
ances. 

And  afterwards  he  said  such  sweet  things  to  Trilby 


107 

about  it  all,  and  about  her  admirable  care  of  his 
patient,  that  she  positively  wept  with  delight — like 
sweet  Alice  with  hair  so  brown,  whenever  Ben  Bolt 
gave  her  a  smile. 

All  this  sounds  very  goody-goody,  but  it's  true. 

So  it  will  be  easily  understood  how  the  trois  An- 
gliches  came  in  time  to  feel  for  Trilby  quite  a  peculiar 
regard,  and  looked  forward  with  sorrowful  forebod- 
ings to  the  day  when  this  singular  and  pleasant  little 
quartet  would  have  to  be  broken  up,  each  of  them  to 
spread  his  wings  and  fly  away  on  his  own  account, 
and  poor  Trilby  to  be  left  behind  all  by  herself.  They 
would  even  frame  little  plans  whereby  she  might  better 
herself  in  life,  and  avoid  the  many  snares  and  pitfalls 
that  would  beset  her  lonely  path  in  the  quartier  latin 
when  they  were  gone. 

Trilby  never  thought  of  such  things  as  these ;  she 
took  short  views  of  life,  and  troubled  herself  about  no 
morrows. 

There  was,  however,  one  jarring  figure  in  her  little 
fool's  paradise,  a  baleful  and  most  ominous  figure  that 
constantly  crossed  her  path,  and  came  between  her 
and  the  sun,  and  threw  its  shadow  over  her,  and  that 
was  Svengali. 

He  also  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  studio  in  the 
Place  St.  Anatole,  where  much  was  forgiven  him  for 
the  sake  of  his  music,  especially  when  he  came  with 
Gecko  and  they  made  music  together.  But  it  soon 
became  apparent  that  they  did  not  come  there  to  play 
to  the  three  Angliches ;  it  was  to  see  Trilby,  whom 
they  both  had  taken  it  into  their  heads  to  adore,  each 
in  a  different  fashion  : 


108 

Gecko,  with  a  humble,  doglike  worship  that  ex- 
pressed itself  in  mute,  pathetic  deference  and  looks  of 
lowly  self  -  depreciation,  of  apology  for  his  own  un- 
worthy existence,  as  though  the  only  requital  he  would 
ever  dare  to  dream  of  were  a  word  of  decent  polite- 
ness, a  glance  of  tolerance  or  good-will — a  mere  bone 
to  a  dog. 

Svengali  was  a  bolder  wooer.  When  he  cringed,  it 
was  with  a  mock  humility  full  of  sardonic  threats; 
when  he  was  playful,  it  was  with  a  terrible  playful- 
ness, like  that  of  a  cat  with  a  mouse — a  weird  ungain- 
ly cat,  and  most  unclean ;  a  sticky,  haunting,  long, 
lean,  uncanny,  black  spider-cat,  if  there  is  such  an  ani- 
mal outside  a  bad  dream. 

It  was  a  great  grievance  to  him  that  she  had  suf- 
fered from  no  more  pains  in  her  eyes.  She  had  ;  but 
preferred  to  endure  them  rather  than  seek  relief  from 
him. 

So  he  would  playfully  try  to  mesmerize  her  with  his 
glance,  and  sidle  up  nearer  and  nearer  to  her,  making 
passes  and  counter-passes,  with  stern  command  in  his 
eyes,  till  she  would  shake  and  shiver  and  almost  sicken 
with  fear,  and  all  but  feel  the  spell  come  over  her,  as 
in  a  nightmare,  and  rouse  herself  with  a  great  effort 
and  escape. 

If  Taffy  were  there  he  would  interfere  with  a  friend- 
ly "  Now  then,  old  fellow,  none  of  that !"  and  a  jolly 
slap  on  the  back,  which  would  make  Svengali  cough 
for  an  hour,  and  paralyze  his  mesmeric  powers  for  a 
week. 

Svengali  had  a  stroke  of  good-fortune.  He  played 
at  three  grand  concerts  with  Gecko,  and  had  a  well- 


109 

deserved  success.  He  even  gave  a  concert  of  his  own, 
which  made  a  furor,  and  blossomed  out  into  beautiful 
and  costly  clothes  of  quite  original  color  and  shape 
and  pattern,  so  that  people  would  turn  round  and  stare 
at  him  in  the  street — a  thing  he  loved.  He  felt  his 
fortune  was  secure,  and  ran  into  debt  with  tailors, 
hatters,  shoemakers,  jewellers,  but  paid  none  of  his  old 
debts  to  his  friends.  His  pockets  were  always  full  of 
printed  slips — things  that  had  been  written  about  him 
in  the  papers — and  he  would  read  them  aloud  to  every- 
body he  knew,  especially  to  Trilby,  as  she  sat  darning 
socks  on  the  model-throne  while  the  fencing  and  box- 
ing were  in  train.  And  he  would  lay  his  fame  and 
his  fortune  at  her  feet,  on  condition  that  she  should 
share  her  life  with  him. 

"  Ach,  himmel,  Drilpy !"  he  would  say,  "  you  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  be  a  great  pianist  like  me — hein ! 
What  is  your  Little  Billee,  with  his  stinking  oil-blad- 
ders, sitting  mum  in  his  corner,  his  mahlstick  and  his 
palette  in  one  hand,  and  his  twiddling  little  footle 
pig's-hair  brush  in  the  other!  What  noise  does  he 
make  ?  When  his  little  fool  of  a  picture  is  finished  he 
will  send  it  to  London,  and  they  will  hang  it  on  a  wall 
with  a  lot  of  others,  all  in  a  line,  like  recruits  called 
out  for  inspection,  and  the  yawning  public  will  walk 
by  in  procession  and  inspect,  and  say  '  damn !'  Svengali 
will  go  to  London  himself.  Ha !  ha !  He  will  be  all 
alone  on  a  platform,  and  play  as  nobody  else  can  play  ; 
and  hundreds  of  beautiful  Englanderinnen  will  see 
and  hear  and  go  mad  with  love  for  him — Prinzessen, 
Comtessen,  Serene  English  Altessen.  They  will  soon 
lose  their  Serenity  and  their  Highness  when  they 


110 

hear  Svengali  I  They  will  invite  him  to  their  palaces, 
and  pay  him  a  thousand  francs  to  play  for  them ;  and 
after,  he  will  loll  in  the  best  arm-chair,  and  they  will 
sit  all  round  him  on  footstools,  and  bring  him  tea  and 
gin  and  kiichen  and  marrons  glaces,  and  lean  over  him 
and  fan  him — for  he  is  tired  after  playing  them  for  a 
thousand  francs  of  Chopin !  Ha,  ha !  I  know  all  about 
it — hein  ? 

"  And  he  will  not  look  at  them,  even !  He  will  look 
inward,  at  his  own  dream  —  and  his  dream  will  be 
about  Drilpy — to  lay  his  talent,  his  glory,  his  thousand 
francs  at  her  beautiful  white  feet ! 

"  Their  stupid,  big,  fat,  tow-headed,  putty-nosed  hus- 
bands will  be  mad  with  jealousy,  and  long  to  box  him, 
but  they  will  be  afraid.  Ach !  those  beautiful  An- 
glaises !  they  will  think  it  an  honor  to  mend  his  shirts, 
to  sew  buttons  on  his  pantaloons ;  to  darn  his  socks, 
as  you  are  doing  now  for  that  sacred  imbecile  of  a 
Scotchman  who  is  always  trying  to  paint  toreadors,  or 
that  sweating,  pig-headed  bullock  of  an  Englander  who 
is  always  trying  to  get  himself  dirty  and  then  to  get 
himself  clean  again ! — e  da  capo  ! 

"  Himmel !  what  big  socks  are  those !  what  potato- 
sacks! 

"  Look  at  your  Taffy !  what  is  he  good  for  but  to 
bang  great  musicians  on  the  back  with  his  big  bear's 
paw  !  He  finds  that  droll,  the  bullock !  .  .  . 

"Look  at  your  Frenchmen  there  —  your  damned 
conceited  verfluchte  pig-dogs  of  Frenchmen — Durien, 
Barizel,  Bouchardy  !  What  can  a  Frenchman  talk  of, 
hein  ?  Only  himself,  and  run  down  everybody  else ! 
His  vanity  makes  me  sick!  He  always  thinks  the 


TIT  FOB  TAT 


112 

world  is  talking  about  him,  the  fool !  He  forgets  that 
there's  a  fellow  called  Svengali  for  the  world  to  talk 
about!  I  tell  you,  Drilpy,  it  is  about  me  the  world  is 
talking — me  and  nobody  else — me,  me,  me ! 

"  Listen  what  they  say  in  the  Figaro"  (reads  it). 

"  What  do  you  think  of  that,  hein  ?  What  would 
your  Durien  say  if  people  wrote  of  him  like  that? 

"  But  you  are  not  listening,  sapperment !  great  big 
she  -  fool  that  you  are — sheep's  -  head !  Dummkopf ! 
Donnerwetter !  you  are  looking  at  the  chimney-pots 
when  Svengali  is  talking !  Look  a  little  lower  down 
between  the  houses,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river! 
There  is  a  little  ugly  gray  building  there,  and  inside 
are  eight  slanting  slabs  of  brass,  all  of  a  row,  like 

O  O  *  ' 

beds  in  a  school  dormitory,  and  one  fine  day  you  shall 
lie  asleep  on  one  of  those  slabs  —  you,  Drilpy,  who 
would  not  listen  to  Svengali,  and  therefore  lost  him ! 
.  .  .  And  over  the  middle  of  you  will  be  a  little 
leather  apron,  and  over  your  head  a  little  brass  tap, 
and  all  day  long  and  all  night  the  cold  water  shall 
trickle,  trickle,  trickle  all  the  way  down  your  beauti- 
ful white  body  to  your  beautiful  white  feet  till  they 
turn  green,  and  your  poor,  damp,  draggled,  muddy  rags 
will  hang  above  you  from  the  ceiling  for  your  friends 
to  know  you  by ;  drip,  drip,  drip !  But  you  will  have 
no  friends.  .  .  . 

"  And  people  of  all  sorts,  strangers,  will  stare  at  you 
through  the  big  plate -glass  windows  —  Englanders, 
chiffonniers,  painters  and  sculptors,  workmen,  piou- 
pious,  old  hags  of  washer  -  women  —  and  say,  *  Ah  ! 
what  a  beautiful  woman  was  that !  Look  at  her !  She 
ought  to  be  rolling  in  her  carriage  and  pair!'  And 


113 

just  then  who  should  come  by,  rolling  in  his  carriage 
and  pair,  smothered  in  furs,  and  smoking  a  big  cigar 
of  the  Havana,  but  Svengali,  who  will  jump  out,  and 
push  the  canaille  aside,  and  say,  "  Ha !  ha !  that  is  la 
grande  Drilpy,  who  would  not  listen  to  Svengali,  but 
looked  at  the  chimney-pots  when  he  told  her  of  his 
manly  love,  and— 

"  Hi !  damn  it,  Svengali,  what  the  devil  are  you 
talking  to  Trilby  about?  You're  making  her  sick; 
can't  you  see  ?  Leave  off,  and  go  to  the  piano,  man, 
or  I'll  come  and  slap  you  on  the  back  again !" 

Thus  would  that  sweating,  pig-headed  bullock  of  an 
Englander  stop  Svengali's  love-making  and  release 
Trilby  from  bad  quarters  of  an  hour. 

Then  Svengali,  who  had  a  wholesome  dread  of  the 
pig-headed  bullock,  would  go  to  the  piano  and  make 
impossible  discords,  and  say :  "  Dear  Drilpy,  come  and 
sing  '  Pen  Polt ' !  I  am  thirsting  for  those  so  beauti- 
ful chest  notes !  Come !" 

Poor  Trilby  needed  little  pressing  when  she  was 
asked  to  sing,  and  would  go  through  her  lamentable 
performance,  to  the  great  discomfort  of  Little  Billee. 
It  lost  nothing  of  its  grotesqueness  from  Svengali's 
accompaniment,  which  was  a  triumph  of  cacophony, 
and  he  would  encourage  her — "  Tres  pien,  tres  pien,  ga, 
y  est !" 

"When  it  was  over,  Svengali  would  test  her  ear,  a,s 
he  called  it,  and  strike  the  C  in  the  middle  and  then 
the  F  just  above,  and  ask  which  was  the  highest;  and 
she  would  declare  they  were  both  exactly  the  same. 
It  was  only  when  he  struck  a  note  in  the  bass  and 
another  in  the  treble  that  she  could  perceive  any  dif- 


114 

ference,  and  said  that  the  first  sounded  like  pere 
Martin  blowing  up  his  wife,  and  the  second  like  her 
little  godson  trying  to  make  the  peace  between  them. 

She  was  quite  tone-deaf,  and  didn't  know  it;  and 
he  would  pay  her  extravagant  compliments  on  her 
musical  talent,  till  Taffy  would  say:  "Look  here, 
Svengali,  let's  hear  you  sing  a  song !" 

And  he  would  tickle  him  so  masterfully  under  the 
ribs  that  the  creature  howled  and  became  quite  hys- 
terical. 

Then  Svengali  would  vent  his  love  of  teasing  on 
Little  Billee,  and  pin  his  arms  behind  his  back  and 
swing  him  round,  saying:  "Himmel!  what's  this  for 
an  arm  ?  It's  like  a  girl's !" 

"  It's  strong  enough  to  paint !"  said  Little  Billee. 

"  And  what's  this  for  a  leg?    It's  like  a  mahlstickl" 

"  It's  strong  enough  to  kick,  if  you  don't  leave 
off!" 

And  Little  Billee,  the  young  and  tender,  would  let 
out  his  little  heel  and  kick  the  German's  shins ;  and 
just  as  the  German  was  going  to  retaliate,  big  Taffy 
would  pin  his  arms  and  make  him  sing  another  song, 
more  discordant  than  Trilby's — for  he  didn't  dream 
of  kicking  Taffy ;  of  that  you  may  be  sure ! 

Such  was  Svengali  —  only  to  be  endured  for  the 
sake  of  his  music  —  always  ready  to  vex,  frighten, 
bully,  or  torment  anybody  or  anything  smaller  and 
weaker  than  himself — from  a  woman  or  a  child  to  a 
mouse  or  a  fly. 


part  CbirO 

"  Par  de^a,  ne  dela  la  met 
Ne  sQay  dame  ni  damoiselle 
Qui  soit  en  tous  biens  parfaits  telld— 
C'est  un  songe  que  d'y  penser: 
Dieu!  qu'il  fait  bon  la  regarderl" 

ONE  lovely  Monday  morning  in  late  September,  at 
about  eleven  or  so,  Taffy  and  the  Laird  sat  in  the 
studio — each  opposite  his  picture,  smoking,  nursing  his 
knee,  and  saying  nothing.  The  heaviness  of  Monday 
weighed  on  their  spirits  more  than  usual,  for  the  three 
friends  had  returned  late  on  the  previous  night  from  a 
week  spent  at  Barbizon  and  in  the  forest  of  Fontaine- 
bleau  —  a  heavenly  week  among  the  painters :  Rous- 
seau, Millet,  Corot,  Daubigny,  let  us  suppose,  and 
others  less  known  to  fame  this  day.  Little  Billee, 
especially,  had  been  fascinated  by  all  this  artistic 
life  in  blouses  and  sabots  and  immense  straw  hats  and 
panamas,  and  had  sworn  to  himself  and  to  his  friends 
that  he  would  some  day  live  and  die  there — painting 
the  forest  as  it  is,  and  peopling  it  with  beautiful  peo- 
ple out  of  his  own  fancy — leading  a  healthy  out-door 
life  of  simple  wants  and  lofty  aspirations. 

At  length  Taffy  said:  "  Bother  work  this  morning! 
I  feel  much  more  like  a  stroll  in  the  Luxembourg  Gar- 
dens and  lunch  at  the  Cafe  de  1'Odeon,  where  the  ome- 
lets are  good  and  the  wine  isn't  blue." 


THK    IUPPT    LIFE 


"The  very  thing  I 
was  thinking  of  my- 
self," said  the  Laird. 

So  Taffy  slipped  on 
his  old  shooting-jacket 
and  his  old  Harrow 
cricket  cap,  with  the 
peak  turned  the  wrong 
way,  and  the  Laird  put 
on  an  old  great-coat  of 
Taffy's  that  reached  tc 

his  heels,  and  a  battered  straw  hat  they  had  found  in 
the  studio  when  they  took  it ;  and  both  sallied  forth 
into  the  mellow  sunshine  on  the  way  to  Carrel's.  For 
they  meant  to  seduce  Little  Billee  from  his  work,  that 
he  might  share  in  their  laziness,  greediness,  and  gen- 
eral demoralization. 

And  whom  should  they  meet  coming  down  the  nar- 
row turroted  old  Rue  Vieille  des  Mauvais  Ladres  but 
Little  Billee  himself,  with  an  air  of  general  demoraliza- 
tion so  tragic  that  they  were  quite  alarmed.  He  had 
his  paint-box  and  field-easel  in  one  hand  and  his  little 
valise  in  the  other.  He  was  pale,  his  hat  on  the  back 


117 

of  his  head,  his  hair  staring  all  at  sixes  and  sevens, 
like  a  sick  Scotch  terrier's. 

"  Good  Lord !  what's  the  matter?"  said  Taffy. 

"  Oh !  oh !  oh !  she's  sitting  at  Carrel's !" 

"  "Who's  sitting  at  Carrel's  ?" 

"  Trilby !  sitting  to  all  those  ruffians !  There  she 
was,  just  as  I  opened  the  door ;  I  saw  her,  I  tell  you ! 
The  sight  of  her  was  like  a  blow  between  the  eyes, 
and  I  bolted !  I  shall  never  go  back  to  that  beastly 
hole  again !  I'm  off  to  Barbizon,  to  paint  the  forest ; 
I  was  coming  round  to  tell  you.  Good-bye !  .  .  ." 

"  Stop  a  minute — are  you  mad  ?"  said  Taffy,  collar- 
ing him. 

"  Let  me  go,  Taffy — let  me  go,  damn  it !  I'll  come 
back  in  a  week — but  I'm  going  now !  Let  me  go ;  do 
you  hear?" 

"  But  look  here — I'll  go  with  you." 

"  No ;  I  want  to  be  alone — quite  alone.  Let  me  go, 
I  tell  you !" 

"  I  sha'n't  let  you  go  unless  you  swear  to  me,  on 
your  honor,  that  you'll  write  directly  you  get  there, 
and  every  day  till  you  come  back.  Swear!" 

"All  right;  I  swear — honor  bright!  Now  there! 
Good-bye — good-bye;  back  on  Sunday — good-bye!" 
And  he  was  off. 

"Now,  what  the  devil  does  all  that  mean?"  asked 
Taffy,  mucn  perturbed. 

"  I  suppose  he's  shocked  at  seeing  Trilby  in  that 
guise,  or  disguise,  or  unguise,  sitting  at  Carrel's — he's 
such  an  odd  little  chap.  And  I  must  say,  I'm  sur- 
prised at  Trilby.  It's  a  bad  thing  for  her  when  we're 
away.  What  could  have  induced  her  ?  She  never  sat 


118 

in  a  studio  of  that  kind  before.  I  thought  she  only 
sat  to  Durien  and  old  Carrel." 

They  walked  for  a  while  in  silence. 

"  Do  you  know,  I've  got  a  horrid  idea  that  the  little 
fool's  in  love  with  her!" 

"  I've  long  had  a  horrid  idea  that  she's  in  love  with 
him." 

"That  would  be  a  very  stupid  business,"  said 
Taffy. 

They  walked  on,  brooding  over  those  two  horrid 
ideas,  and  the  more  they  brooded,  considered,  and  re- 
membered, the  more  convinced  they  became  that  both 
were  right. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  kettle  of  fish !"  said  the  Laird — 
"  and  talking  of  fish,  let's  go  and  lunch." 

And  so  demoralized  were  they  that  Taffy  ate  three 
omelets  without  thinking,  and  the  Laird  drank  two  half- 
bottles  of  wine,  and  Taffy  three,  and  they  walked 
about  the  whole  of  that  afternoon  for  fear  Trilby 
should  come  to  the  studio — and  were  very  unhappy. 

This  is  how  Trilby  came  to  sit  at  Carrel's  studio : 
Carrel  had  suddenly  taken  it  into  his  head  that  he 
would  spend  a  week  there,  and  paint  a  figure  among 
his  pupils,  that  they  might  see  and  paint  with — and  if 
possible  like — him.  And  he  had  asked  Trilby  as  a 
great  favor  to  be  the  model,  and  Trilby  was  so  de- 
voted to  the  great  Carrel  that  she  readily  consented. 
So  that  Monday  morning  found  her  there,  and  Carrel 
posed  her  as  Ingres's  famous  figure  in  his  picture 
called  "  La  Source,"  holding  a  stone  pitcher  on  her 
shoulder. 


' UET  MB  GO,  TAFFY   . . .  '  " 


120 

And  the  work  began  in  religious  silence.  Then  in 
five  minutes  or  so  Little  Billee  came  bursting  in,  and 
as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  her  he  stopped  and 
stood  as  one  petrified,  his  shoulders  up,  his  eyes  star- 
ing. Then  lifting  his  arms,  he  turned  and  fled. 

"Qu'est  ce  qu'il  a  donc,ce  Litrebili?"  exclaimed  one 
or  two  students  (for  they  had  turned  his  English  nick- 
name into  French). 

"  Perhaps  he's  forgotten  something,"  said  another. 
"Perhaps  he's  forgotten  to  brush  his  teeth  and  part 
his  hair!" 

"  Perhaps  he's  forgotten  to  say  his  prayers !"  said 
Barizel. 

"  He'll  come  back,  I  hope !"  exclaimed  the  master. 

And  the  incident  gave  rise  to  no  further  com- 
ment. 

But  Trilby  was  much  disquieted,  and  fell  to  won- 
dering what  on  earth  was  the  matter. 

At  first  she  wondered  in  French :  French  of  the 
quurtier  latin.  She  had  not  seen  Little  Billee  for  a 
week,  and  wondered  if  he  were  ill.  She  had  looked 
forward  so  much  to  his  painting  her  —  painting  her 
beautifully — and  hoped  he  would  soon  come  back,  and 
lose  no  time. 

Then  she  began  to  wonder  in  English — nice  clean 
English  of  the  studio  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des 
Arts  —  her  father's  English  —  and  suddenly  a  quick 
thought  pierced  her  through  and  through,  and  made 
the  flesh  tingle  on  her  insteps  and  the  backs  of  her 
hands,  and  bathed  her  brow  and  temples  with  sweat. 

She  had  good  eyes,  and  Little  Billee  had  a  singular- 
ly expressive  face. 


121 


Could  it  possibly  be  that  he  was  shocked  at  seeing 
her  sitting  there  ? 

She  knew  that  he  was  peculiar  in  many  ways.    She 
remembered  that  neither  he  nor  Taffy  nor  the  Laird 
had  ever  asked  her  to  sit  for  the  figure,  though  she 
would  have  been  only 
too  delighted  to  do  so 
for  them.     She  also  re- 
membered how   Little 
Billee  had  always  been 
silent  whenever  she  al- 
luded   to    her    posing 
for    the   "altogether," 
as   she   called   it,   and 
had  sometimes  looked 
pained  and  always  very 
grave. 

She  turned  alternate- 
ly pale  and  red,  pale 
and  red  all  over,  again 
and  again,  as  the 
thought  grew  up  in 
her  —  and  soon  the 
growing  thought  be- 
came a  torment. 

This  new-born  feel- 
ing of  shame  was  un- 
endurable— its  birth  a 

travail  that  racked  and  rent  every  fibre  of  her  moral 
being,  and  she  suffered  agonies  beyond  anything  she 
had  ever  felt  in  her  life. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you,  my  child  ?    Are  you 


'  QU'EST  CE  QU'IL  A  DONC,  CE  LITREBILI  ?' " 


123 

ill  ?"  asked  Carrel,  who,  like  every  one  else,  was  very 
fond  of  her,  and  to  whom  she  had  sat  as  a  child  ("  1'En- 
fance  de  Psyche","  now  in  the  Luxembourg  Gallery,  was 
painted  from  her). 

She  shook  her  head,  and  the  work  went  on. 

Presently  she  dropped  her  pitcher,  that  broke  into 
bits ;  and  putting  her  two  hands  to  her  face  she  burst 
into  tears  and  sobs — and  there,  to  the  amazement  of 
everybody,  she  stood  crying  like  a  big  baby — "La 
source  aux  larmes?" 

"  What  is  the  matter,  my  poor  dear  child  ?"  said  Car- 
rel, jumping  up  and  helping  her  off  the  throne. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — 1  don't  know — I'm  ill — very  ill 
—let  me  go  home  !" 

And  with  kind  solicitude  and  despatch  they  helped 
her  on  with  her  clothes,  and  Carrel  sent  for  a  cab  and 
took  her  home. 

And  on  the  way  she  dropped  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  wept,  and  told  him  all  about  it  as  well  as  she 
could,  and  Monsieur  Carrel  had  tears  in  his  eyes  too, 
and  wished  to  Heaven  he  had  never  induced  her  to  sit 
for  the  figure,  either  then  or  at  any  other  time.  And 
pondering  deeply  and  sorrowfully  on  such  terrible  re- 
sponsibility (he  had  grown-up  daughters  of  his  own),  he 
went  back  to  the  studio;  and  in  an  hour's  time  they  got 
another  model  and  another  pitcher,  and  went  to  work 
again. 

And  Trilby,  as  she  lay  disconsolate  on  her  bed  all 
that  day  and  all  the  next,  and  all  the  next  again, 
thought  of  her  past  life  with  agonies  of  shame  and 
remorse  that  made  the  pain  in  her  eyes  seem  as  a 


light  and  welcome  relief.  For  it  came,  and  tortured 
worse  and  lasted  longer  than  it  had  ever  done  before. 
But  she  soon  found,  to  her  miserable  bewilderment, 
that  mind-aches  are  the  worst  of  all. 

Then  she  decided  that  she  must  write  to  one  of  the 
trois  Angliches,  and  chose  the  Laird. 

She  was  more  familiar  with  him  than  with  the  other 
two:  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  familiar  with  the 
Laird  if  he  liked  one,  as  he  was  so  easy-going  and 
demonstrative,  for  all  that  he  was  such  a  canny 
Scot !  Then  she  had  nursed  him  through  his  illness ; 
she  had  often  hugged  and  kissed  him  before  the 
whole  studio  full  of  people  —  and  even  when  alone 
with  him  it  had  always  seemed  quite  natural  for  her 
to  do  so.  It  was  like  a  child  caressing  a  favorite 
young  uncle  or  elder  brother.  And  though  the  good 
Laird  was  the  least  susceptible  of  mortals,  he  would 
often  find  these  innocent  blandishments  a  somewhat 
trying  ordeal!  She  had  never  taken  such  a  liberty 
with  Taffy ;  and  as  for  Little  Billee,  she  would  sooner 
have  died ! 

So  she  wrote  to  the  Laird.  I  give  her  letter  with- 
out the  spelling,  which  was  often  faulty,  although  her 
nightly  readings  had  much  improved  it : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND, — I  am  very  unhappy.  I  was  sit- 
ting at  Carrel's,  in  the  Hue  des  Potirons,  and  Little  Bil- 
lee came  in,  and  was  so  shocked  and  disgusted  that  he 
ran  away  and  never  came  back. 

"  I  saw  it  all  in  his  face. 

"  I  sat  there  because  M.  Carrel  asked  me  to.  He 
has  always  been  very  kind  to  me — M.  Carrel — ever 


124 

since  I  was  a  child ;  and  I  would  do  anything  to 
please  him,  but  never  that  again. 

"  He  was  there  too. 

"  I  never  thought  anything  about  sitting  before.  I 
sat  first  as  a  child  to  M.  Carrel.  Mamma  made  me, 
and  made  me  promise  not  to  tell  papa,  and  so  I  didn't. 
It  soon  seemed  as  natural  to  sit  for  people  as  to  run 
errands  for  them,  or  wash  and  mend  their  clothes. 
Papa  wouldn't  have  liked  my  doing  that  either,  though 
we  wanted  the  money  badly.  And  so  he  never  knew. 

"  I  have  sat  for  the  altogether  to  several  other  people 
besides — M.  G6rome,  Durien,  the  two  Hennequins,  and 
£mile  Baratier ;  and  for  the  head  and  hands  to  lots  of 
people,  and  for  the  feet  only  to  Charles  Faure,  Andre 
Besson,  Mathieu  Dumoulin,  and  Collinet.  Nobody 
else. 

"  It  seemed  as  natural  for  me  to  sit  as  for  a  man. 
Now  I  see  the  awful  difference. 

"  And  I  have  done  dreadful  things  besides,  as  you 
must  know — as  all  the  quartier  knows.  Baratier  and 
Besson  ;  but  not  Durien,  though  people  think  so.  No- 
body else,  I  swear — except  old  Monsieur  Penque  at  the 
beginning,  who  was  mamma's  friend. 

"  It  makes  me  almost  die  of  shame  and  misery  to 
think  of  it ;  for  that's  not  like  sitting.  I  knew  how 
wrong  it  was  all  along — and  there's  no  excuse  for  me, 
none.  Though  lots  of  people  do  as  bad,  and  nobody 
in  the  quartier  seems  to  think  any  the  worse  of  them. 

"  If  you  and  Taffy  and  Little  Billee  cut  me,  I  really 
think  I  shall  go  mad  and  die.  Without  your  friend- 
ship I  shouldn't  care  to  live  a  bit.  Dear  Sandy,  I  love 
your  little  finger  better  than  any  man  or  woman  I 


126 

ever  met ;  and  Taffy's  and  Little  Billee's  little  fingers 
too. 

"What  shall  I  do?  I  daren't  go  out  for  fear  of 
meeting  one  of  you.  Will  you  come  and  see  me? 

"  I  am  never  going  to  sit  again,  not  even  for  the 
face  and  hands.  I  am  going  back  to  be  a  llanchis- 
seuse  defin  with  my  old  friend  Angele  Boisse,  who  is 
getting  on  very  well  indeed,  in  the  Rue  des  Cloitres 
Ste.  P£tronille. 

"  You  will  come  and  see  me,  won't  you  ?  I  shall  be 
in  all  day  till  you  do.  Or  else  I  will  meet  you  some- 
where, if  you  will  tell  me  where  and  when ;  or  else  I 
will  go  and  see  you  in  the  studio,  if  you  are  sure  to 
be  alone.  Please  don't  keep  me  waiting  long  for  an 
answer. 

"  You  don't  know  what  I'm  suffering. 

"  Your  ever-loving,  faithful  friend, 

"TKILBY  O'FERRALL." 

She  sent  this  letter  by  hand,  and  the  Laird  came  in 
less  than  ten  minutes  after  she  had  sent  it ;  and  she 
hugged  and  kissed  and  cried  over  him  so  that  he  was 
almost  ready  to  cry  himself;  but  he  burst  out  laugh- 
ing instead — which  was  better  and  more  in  his  line, 
and  very  much  more  comforting — and  talked  to  her  so 
nicely  and  kindly  and  naturally  that  by  the  time  he 
left  her  humble  attic  in  the  Rue  des  Pousse-Cailloux 
her  very  aspect,  which  had  quite  shocked  him  when 
he  first  saw  her,  had  almost  become  what  it  usually 
was. 

The  little  room  under  the  leads,  with  its  sloping 
roof  and  mansard  window,  was  as  scrupulously  neat 


127 

and  clean  as  if  its  tenant  had  been  a  holy  sister  who 
taught  the  noble  daughters  of  France  at  some  Convent 
of  the  Sacred  Heart.  There  were  nasturtiums  and 
mignonette  on  the  outer  window-sill,  and  convolvulus 
was  trained  to  climb  round  the  window. 

As  she  sat  by  his  side  on  the  narrow  white  bed, 
clasping  and  stroking  his  painty,  turpentiny  hand,  and 
kissing  it  every  five  minutes,  he  talked  to  her  like  a 
father — as  he  told  Taffy  afterwards— and  scolded  her 
for  having  been  so  silly  as  not  to  send  for  him  directly, 
or  come  to  the  studio.  He  said  how  glad  he  was,  how 
glad  they  would  all  be,  that  she  was  going  to  give  up 
sitting  for  the  figure — not,  of  course,  that  there  was 
any  real  harm  in  it,  but  it  was  better  not — and  espe- 
cially how  happy  it  would  make  them  to  feel  she  in- 
tended to  live  straight  for  the  future.  Little  Billee 
was  to  remain  at  Barbizon  for  a  little  while ;  but  she 
must  promise  to  come  and  dine  with  Taffy  and  himself 
that  very  day,  and  cook  the  dinner;  and  when  he 
went  back  to  his  picture,  "  Les  Noces  du  Toreador  " — 
saying  to  her  as  he  left,  "  a  ce  soir  done,  mille  sacres 
tonnerres  de  nong  de  Dew !"  -  —  he  left  the  happiest 
woman  in  the  whole  Latin  quarter  behind  him:  she 
had  confessed  and  been  forgiven. 

And  with  shame  and  repentance  and  confession  and 
forgiveness  had  come  a  strange  new  feeling — that  of  a 
dawning  self-respect. 

Hitherto,  for  Trilby,  self  -  respect  had  meant  little 
more  than  the  mere  cleanliness  of  her  body,  in  which 
she  had  always  revelled ;  alas !  it  was  one  of  the  con- 
ditions of  her  humble  calling.  It  now  meant  another 
kind  of  cleanliness,  and  she  would  luxuriate  in  it  for 


128 

evermore ;  and  the  dreadful  past — never  to  be  forgot- 
ten  by  her — should  be  so  lived  down  as  in  time,  per- 
haps,  to  be  forgotten  by  others. 

The  dinner  that  evening  was  a  memorable  one  for 
Trilby.  After  she  had  washed  up  the  knives  and  forks 
and  plates  and  dishes,  and  put  them  by,  she  sat  and 
sewed.  She  wouldn't  even  smoke  her  cigarette,  it  re- 
minded her  so  of  things  and  scenes  she  now  hated. 
No  more  cigarettes  for  Trilby  O'Ferrall. 

They  all  talked  of  Little  Billee.  She  heard  about 
the  way  he  had  been  brought  up,  about  his  mother 
and  sister,  the  people  he  had  always  lived  among.  She 
also  heard  (and  her  heart  alternately  rose  and  sank  as 
she  listened)  what  his  future  was  likely  to  be,  and  how 
rare  his  genius  was,  and  how  great — if  his  friends  were 
to  be  trusted.  Fame  and  fortune  would  soon  be  his — 
such  fame  and  fortune  as  fell  to  the  lot  of  very  few-- 
unless  anything  should  happen  to  spoil  his  promise 
and  mar  his  prospects  in  life,  and  ruin  a  splendid 
career;  and  the  rising  of  the  heart  was  all  for  him, 
the  sinking  for  herself.  How  could  she  ever  hope 
to  be  even  the  friend  of  such  a  man?  Might  she 
ever  hope  to  be  his  servant — his  faithful,  humble 
servant  ? 

Little  Billee  spent  a  month  at  Barbizon,  and  when 
he  came  back  it  was  with  such  a  brown  face  that  his 
friends  hardly  knew  him;  and  he  brought  with  him 
such  studies  as  made  his  friends  "  sit  up." 

The  crushing  sense  of  their  own  hopeless  inferiority 
was  lost  in  wonder  at  his  work,  in  love  and  enthusiasm 
for  the  workman. 


CONFESSION 


180 

Their  Little  Billee,  so  young  and  tender,  so  weak  of 
body,  so  strong  of  purpose,  so  warm  of  heart,  so  light 
of  hand,  so  keen  and  quick  and  piercing  of  brain  and 
eye,  was  their  master,  to  be  stuck  on  a  pedestal  and 
looked  up  to  and  bowed  down  to,  to  be  watched  and 
warded  and  worshipped  for  evermore. 

When  Trilby  came  in  from  her  work  at  six,  and  he 
shook  hands  with  her  and  said  "  Hullo,  Trilby !"  her 
face  turned  pale  to  the  lips,  her  under-lip  quivered,  and 
she  gazed  down  at  him  (for  she  was  among  the  tallest 
of  her  sex)  with  such  a  moist,  hungry,  wide-eyed  look 
of  humble  craving  adoration  that  the  Laird  felt  his 
worst  fears  were  realized,  and  the  look  Little  Billee 
sent  up  in  return  filled  the  manly  bosom  of  Taffy  with 
an  equal  apprehension. 

Then  they  all  four  went  and  dined  together  at  le 
pere  Trin's,  and  Trilby  went  back  to  her  llanchisserie 
defin. 

Next  day  Little  Billee  took  his  work  to  show  Carrel, 
and  Carrel  invited  him  to  come  and  finish  his  picture 
"  The  Pitcher  Goes  to  the  Well "  at  his  own  private 
studio — an  unheard-of  favor,  which  the  boy  accepted 
with  a  thrill  of  proud  gratitude  and  affectionate  rev- 
erence. 

So  little  was  seen  for  some  time  of  Little  Billee  at 
the  studio  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  and  little 
of  Trilby ;  a  blanchisseuse  defin  has  not  many  minutes 
to  spare  from  her  irons.  But  they  often  met  at  din- 
ner. And  on  Sunday  mornings  Trilby  came  to  repair 
the  Laird's  linen  and  darn  his  socks  and  look  after  his 
little  comforts,  as  usual,  and  spend  a  happy  day.  And 
on  Sunday  afternoons  the  studio  would  be  as  lively  as 


131 

ever,  with  the  fencing  and  boxing,  the  piano-playing 
and  fiddling — all  as  it  used  to  be. 

And  week  by  week  the  friends  noticed  a  gradual 
and  subtle  change  in  Trilby.  She  was  no  longer 
slangy  in  French,  unless  it  were  now  and  then  by  a 
slip  of  the  tongue,  no  longer  so  facetious  and  droll, 
and  yet  she  seemed  even  happier  than  she  had  ever 
seemed  before. 

Also,  she  grew  thinner,  especially  in  the  face,  where 
the  bones  of  her  cheeks  and  jaw  began  to  show  them- 
selves, and  these  bones  were  constructed  on  such  right 
principles  (as  were  those  of  her  brow  and  chin  and  the 
bridge  of  her  nose)  that  the  improvement  was  aston- 
ishing, almost  inexplicable. 

Also,  she  lost  her  freckles  as  the  summer  waned  and 
she  herself  went  less  into  the  open  air.  And  she  let 
her  hair  grow,  and  made  of  it  a  small  knot  at  the  back 
of  her  head,  and  showed  her  little  flat  ears,  which 
were  charming,  and  just  in  the  right  place,  very  far 
back  and  rather  high;  Little  Billee  could  not  have 
placed  them  better  himself.  Also,  her  mouth,  always 
too  large,  took  on  a  firmer  and  sweeter  outline,  and 
her  big  British  teeth  were  so  white  and  even  that  even 
Frenchmen  forgave  them  their  British  bigness.  And 
a  new  soft  brightness  came  into  her  eyes  that  no  one 
had  ever  seen  there  before.  They  were  stars,  just 
twin  gray  stars — or  rather  planets  just  thrown  off  by 
some  new  sun,  for  the  steady  mellow  light  they  gave 
out  was  not  entirely  their  own. 

Favorite  types  of  beauty  change  with  each  succeed- 
ing generation.  These  were  the  days  of  Buckner's 
aristocratic  Album  beauties,  with  lofty  foreheads,  oval 


133 

faces,  little  aquiline  noses,  heart-shaped  little  mouths, 
soft  dimpled  chins,  drooping  shoulders,  and  long  side 
ringlets  that  fell  over  them— the  Lady  Arabellas  and 
the  Lady  Clementinas,  Musidoras  and  Medoras!  A 
type  that  will  perhaps  come  back  to  us  some  day. 

May  the  present  scribe  be  dead ! 

Trilby's  type  would  be  infinitely  more  admired  now 
than  in  the  fifties.  Her  photograph  would  be  in  the 
shop-windows.  Sir  Edward  Burne-Jones — if  I  may 
make  so  bold  as  to  say  so — would  perhaps  have  marked 
her  for  his  own,  in  spite  of  her  almost  too  exuberant 
joyousness  and  irrepressible  vitality.  Rossetti  might 
have  evolved  another  new  formula  from  her;  Sir 
John  Millais  another  old  one  of  the  kind  that  is  al- 
ways new  and  never  sates  nor  palls — like  Clytie,  let 
us  say — ever  old  and  ever  new  as  love  itself! 

Trilby's  type  was  in  singular  contrast  to  the  type 
Gavarni  had  made  so  popular  in  the  Latin  quarter 
at  the  period  we  are  writing  of,  so  that  those  who 
fell  so  readily  under  her  charm  were  rather  apt  to 
wonder  why.  Moreover,  she  was  thought  much  too 
tall  for  her  sex,  and  her  day,  and  her  station  in  life, 
and  especially  for  the  country  she  lived  in.  She 
hardly  looked  up  to  a  bold  gendarme !  and  a  bold 
gendarme  was  nearly  as  tall  as  a  "  dragon  de  la  garde,'' 
who  was  nearly  as  tall  as  an  average  English  police- 
man. Not  that  she  was  a  giantess,  by  any  means. 
She  was  about  as  tall  as  Miss  Ellen  Terry — and  that 
is  a  charming  height,  /  think. 

One  day  Taffy  remarked  to  the  Laird :  "  Hang  it ! 
I'm  blest  if  Trilby  isn't  the  handsomest  woman  I 
know  I  She  looks  like  a  grande  dame  masquerading 


184 

as  a  grisette  —  almost  like  a  joyful  saint  at  times. 
She's  lovely !  By  Jove !  I  couldn't  stand  her  hugging 
me  as  she  does  you !  There'd  be  a  tragedy — say  the 
slaughter  of  Little  Billee." 

"Ah!  Taffy,  my  boy,"  rejoined  the  Laird,  "when 
those  long  sisterly  arms  are  round  my  neck  it  isn't  me 
she's  hugging." 

"  And  then,"  said  Taffy,  "  what  a  trump  she  is ! 
Why,  she's  as  upright  and  straight  and  honorable  as 
a  man!  And  what  she  says  to  one  about  one's  self  is 
always  so  pleasant  to  hear !  That's  Irish,  I  suppose. 
And,  what's  more,  it's  always  true." 

"  Ah,  that's  Scotch !"  said  the  Laird,  and  tried  to 
wink  at  Little  Billee,  but  Little  Billee  wasn't  there. 

Even  Svengali  perceived  the  strange  metamorpho- 
sis. "  Ach,  Drilpy,"  he  would  say,  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon, "  how  beautiful  you  are !  It  drives  me  mad !  I 
adore  you.  I  like  you  thinner ;  you  have  such  beau- 
tiful bones!  Why  do  you  not  answer  my  letters? 
What !  you  do  not  read  them?  You  burn  them?  And 
yet  I —  Donnerwetter !  I  forgot!  The  grisettes  of 
the  quartier  latin  have  not  learned  how  to  read  or 
write ;  they  have  only  learned  how  to  dance  the  can- 
can with  the  dirty  little  pig -dog  monkeys  they  call 
men.  Sacrement!  We  will  teach  the  little  pig  -dog 
monkeys  to  dance  something  else  some  day,  we  Ger- 
mans. We  will  make  music  for  them  to  dance  to! 
Bourn !  bourn !  Better  than  the  waiter  at  the  Cafe  de 
la  Rotonde,  hein?  And  the  grisettes  of  the  quartier 
latin  shall  pour  us  out  your  little  white  wine — '  f otre 
betit  fin  plane,'  as  your  pig- dog  monkey  of  a  poet 
says,  your  rotten  verfluchter  De  Musset, '  who  has  got 


135 


such  a  splendid  future  behind  him' !    Bah !    What  do 
you  know  of  Monsieur  Alfred  de  Musset  ?    We  have 
got  a  poet  too,  my  Drilpy.     His  name  is  Heinrich 
Heine.     If  he's  still  alive,  he  lives  in  Paris,  in  a  little 
street  off  the  Champs  £lysees.    He  lies  in  bed  all  day 
long,  and  only  sees  out 
of    one    eye,   like    the 
Countess   Hahn-Hahn, 
ha!   ha!     He    adores 
French  grisettes.      He 
married  one.   Her  name 
is  Mathilde,  and  she  has 
got  siissen  fiissen,  like 
you.     He  would  adore 
you  too,  for  your  beau- 
tiful bones;  he   would 
like  to  count  them  one 
by  one,  for  he  is  very 
playful,  like  me.     And, 
ach!  what  a  beautiful 
skeleton  you  will  make ! 

And  very  soon,  too,  because  you  do  not  smile  on  your 
madly-loving  Svengali.  You  burn  his  letters  without 
reading  them !  You  shall  have  a  nice  little  mahogany 
glass  case  all  to  yourself  in  the  museum  of  the  £cole  de 
Medecine,  and  Svengali  shall  come  in  his  new  fur-lined 
coat,  smoking  his  big  cigar  of  the  Havana,  and  push 
the  dirty  carabins  out  of  the  way,  and  look  through 
the  holes  of  your  eyes  into  your  stupid  empty  skull, 
and  up  the  nostrils  of  your  high,  bony  sounding-board 
of  a  nose  without  either  a  tip  or  a  lip  to  it,  and  into  the 
roof  of  your  big  mouth,  with  your  thirty-two  big  Eng- 


'TWIN    GRAY  STARS' 


136 

lish  teeth,  and  between  your  big  ribs  into  your  big 
chest,  where  the  big  leather  lungs  used  to  be,  and  say, 
k  Ach !  what  a  pity  she  had  no  more  music  in  her  than 
a  big  tomcat!'  And  then  he  will  look  all  down  your 
bones  to  your  poor  crumbling  feet,  and  say,  '  Ach ! 
tvhat  a  fool  she  was  not  to  answer  Svengali's  letters !' 
and  the  dirty  carabins  shall— 

"  Shut  up,  you  sacred  fool,  or  I'll  precious  soon  spoil 
your  skeleton  for  you."1 

Thus  the  short-tempered  Tafly,  who  had  been  lis- 
tening. 

Then  Svengali,  scowling,  would  play  Chopin's  fu- 
neral march  more  divinely  than  ever ;  and  where  the 
pretty,  soft  part  comes  in,  he  would  whisper  to  Trilby, 
"  That  is  Svengali  coming  to  look  at  you  in  your  little 
mahogany  glass  case !" 

And  here  let  me  say  that  these  vicious  imaginations 
of  Svengali's,  which  look  so  tame  in  English  print, 
sounded  much  more  ghastly  in  French,  pronounced 
with  a  Hebrew  -  German  accent,  and  uttered  in  his 
hoarse,  rasping,  nasal,  throaty  rook's  caw,  his  big  yel- 
low teeth  baring  themselves  in  a  mongrel  canine  snarl, 
his  heavy  upper  eyelids  drooping  over  his  insolent 
black  eyes. 

Besides  which,  as  he  played  the  lovely  melody  he 
would  go  through  a  ghoulish  pantomime,  as  though  he 
were  taking  stock  of  the  different  bones  in  her  skeleton 
with  greedy  but  discriminating  approval.  And  when 
he  came  down  to  the  feet,  he  was  almost  droll  in  the 
intensity  of  his  terrible  realism.  But  Trilby  did  not 
appreciate  this  exquisite  fooling,  and  felt  cold  all  over. 

He  seemed  to  her  a  dread,  powerful  demon,  who, 


137 


but  for  Taffy  (who  alone  could  hold  him  in  check), 
oppressed  and  weighed  on  her  like  an  incubus — and 
she  dreamed  of  him  oftener  than  she  dreamed  of 
Taffy,  the  Laird,  or  even  Little  Billee ! 

Thus  pleasantly  and  smoothly,  and  without  much 
change  or  adventure,  things  went  on  till  Christmas- 
time. 

Little  Billee  seldom  spoke  of  Trilby,  or  Trilby  of 
him.  Work  went  on  every  morning  at  the  studio  in 
the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  and  pictures  were  be- 
gun and  finished — little  pictures  that  didn't  take  long 
to  paint — the  Laird's  Spanish  bull-fighting  scenes,  in 
which  the  bull  never  appeared,  and  which  he  sent  to 
his  native  Dundee  and  sold  there  ;  Taffy's  tragic  little 
dramas  of  life  in 
the  slums  of  Paris 
— starvings,  drown- 
ings  —  suicides  by 
charcoal  and  poison 
— which  he  sent  ev- 
erywhere, but  did 
not  sell. 

Little  Billee  was 
painting  all  this  time 
at  Carrel's  studio — 
his  private  one — and 
seemed  preoccupied 
and  happy  when 
they  all  met  at  meal- 
time, and  less  talka- 
tive even  than  usual.  <(  AN  INCUBUS  " 


188 

He  had  always  been  the  least  talkative  of  the  three ; 
more  prone  to  listen,  and  no  doubt  to  think  the  more. 

In  the  afternoon  people  came  and  went  as  usual, 
and  boxed  and  fenced  and  did  gymnastic  feats,  and 
felt  Taffy's  biceps,  which  by  this  time  equalled  Mr. 
Sandow's ! 

Some  of  these  people  were  very  pleasant  and  re- 
markable, and  have  become  famous  since  then  in  Eng- 
land, France,  America — or  have  died,  or  married,  and 
come  to  grief  or  glory  in  other  ways.  It  is  the  Ballad 
of  the  Bouillabaisse  all  over  again  ! 

It  might  be  worth  while  my  trying  to  sketch  some 
of  the  more  note  worthy,  now  that  my  story  is  slowing 
for  a  while  —  like  a  French  train  when  the  engine- 
driver  sees  a  long  curved  tunnel  in  front  of  him,  as  I 
do — and  no  light  at  the  other  end ! 

My  humble  attempts  at  characterization  might  be 
useful  as  "memoires  pour  servir"  to  future  biogra- 
phers. Besides,  there  are  other  reasons,  as  the  reader 
will  soon  discover. 

There  was  Durien,  for  instance  —  Trilby's  especial 
French  adorer,  "  pour  le  bon  motif !"  a  son  of  the  peo- 
ple, a  splendid  sculptor,  a  very  fine  character  in  every 
way — so  perfect,  indeed,  that  there  is  less  to  say  about 
him  than  any  of  the  others — modest,  earnest,  simple, 
frugal,  chaste,  and  of  untiring  industry  ;  living  for  his 
art,  and  perhaps  also  a  little  for  Trilby,  whom  he 
would  have  been  only  too  glad  to  marry.  He  was 
Pygmalion;  she  was  his  Galatea  —  a  Galatea  whose 
marble  heart  would  never  beat  for  him  ! 

Durien's  house  is  now  the  finest  in  the  Pare  Mon- 
ceau;  his  wife  and  daughters  are  the  best -dressed 


139 

women  in  Paris,  and  he  one  of  the  happiest  of  men ; 
but  he  will  never  quite  forget  poor  Galatea : 

"  La  belle  aux  pieds  d'albatre — aux  deux  talons  de 
rose  1" 

Then  there  was  Vincent,  a  Yankee  medical  student, 
who  could  both  work  and  play. 

He  is  now  one  of  the  greatest  oculists  in  the  world, 
and  Europeans  cross  the  Atlantic  to  consult  him.  He 
can  still  play,  and  when  he  crosses  the  Atlantic  him- 
self for  that  purpose  he  has  to  travel  incognito  like  a 
royalty,  lest  his  play  should  be  marred  by  work.  And 
his  daughters  are  so  beautiful  and  accomplished  that 
British  dukes  have  sighed  after  them  in  vain.  In- 
deed, these  fair  young  ladies  spend  their  autumn  holi- 
day in  refusing  the  British  aristocracy.  We  are  told 
so  in  the  society  papers,  and  I  can  quite  believe  it. 
Love  is  not  always  blind ;  and  if  he  is,  Yincent  is  the 
man  to  cure  him. 

In  those  days  he  prescribed  for  us  all  round,  and 
punched  and  stethoscoped  us,  and  looked  at  our  tongues 
for  love,  and  told  us  what  to  eat,  drink,  and  avoid,  and 
even  where  to  go  for  it. 

For  instance :  late  one  night  Little  Billee  woke  up 
in  a  cold  sweat,  and  thought  himself  a  dying  man — he 
had  felt  seedy  all  day  and  taken  no  food  ;  so  he  dressed 
and  dragged  himself  to  Vincent's  hotel,  and  woke  him 
up,  and  said,  "  Oh,  Vincent,  Vincent !  I'm  a  dying 
man !"  and  all  but  fainted  on  his  bed.  Vincent  felt 
him  all  over  with  the  greatest  care,  and  asked  him 
many  questions.  Then,  looking  at  his  watch,  he  de- 
livered himself  thus  :  "  Humph !  3.30 !  rather  late — 


140 

but  still — look  here,  Little  Billee— do  you  know  the 
Halle,  on  the  other  side  of  the  water,  where  they 
sell  vegetables?" 

"  Oh  yes !  yes !    What  vegetable  shall  I — " 
"  Listen  !     On  the  north  side  are  two  restaurants, 
Bordier  and  Baratte.     They  remain  open  all  night. 
Now  go  straight  off  to  one  of  those  tuck  shops,  and 
tuck  in  as  big  a  supper  as  you  possibly  can.     Some 
people  prefer  Baratte.    I  prefer  Bordier  myself.    Per- 
haps you'd  better  try  Bordier  first  and  Baratte  after. 
At  all  events,  lose  no  time ;  so  off  you  go !" 
Thus  he  saved  Little  Billee  from  an  early  grave. 

Then  there  was  the  Greek,  a  boy  of  only  sixteen, 
but  six  feet  high,  and  looking  ten  years  older  than  he 
was,  and  able  to  smoke  even  stronger  tobacco  than 
Taffy  himself,  and  color  pipes  divinely;  he  was  a 
great  favorite  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole,  for  his  bon- 
homie, his  niceness,  his  warm  geniality.  He  was  the 
capitalist  of  this  select  circle  (and  nobly  lavish  of  his 
capital).  He  went  by  the  name  of  Poluphloisboios- 
paleapologos  Petrilopetrolicoconose  —  for  so  he  was 
christened  by  the  Laird — because  his  real  name  was 
thought  much  too  long  and  much  too  lovely  for  the 
quartier  latin,  and  reminded  one  of  the  Isles  of  Greece 
— where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sang. 

"What  was  he  learning  in  the  Latin  quarter? 
French  ?  He  spoke  French  like  a  native !  Nobody 
knows.  But  when  his  Paris  friends  transferred  their 
bohemia  to  London,  where  were  they  ever  made  hap- 
pier and  more  at  home  than  in  his  lordly  parental 
abode — or  fed  with  nicer  things  I 


THE  CAPITALIST  AND  THE   SWELL 


142 

That  abode  is  now  his,  and  lordlier  than  ever,  as 
becomes  the  dwelling  of  a  millionaire  and  city  mag- 
nate ;  and  its  gray -bearded  owner  is  as  genial,  as  jolly, 
and  as  hospitable  as  in  the  old  Paris  days,  but  he  no 
longer  colors  pipes. 

Then  there  was  Carnegie,  fresh  from  Balliol,  red- 
olent of  the  'varsity.  He  intended  himself  then  for 
the  diplomatic  service,  and  came  to  Paris  to  learn 
French  as  it  is  spoke;  and  spent  most  of  his  time 
with  his  fashionable  English  friends  on  the  right  side 
of  the  river,  and  the  rest  with  Taffy,  the  Laird,  and 
Little  Billee  on  the  left.  Perhaps  that  is  why  he  has 
not  become  an  ambassador.  He  is  now  only  a  rural 
dean,  and  speaks  the  worst  French  I  know,  and  speaks 
it  wherever  and  whenever  he  can. 

It  serves  him  right,  I  think. 

He  was  fond  of  lords,  and  knew  some  (at  least,  he 
gave  one  that  impression),  and  often  talked  of  them, 
and  dressed  so  beautifully  that  even  Little  Billee  was 
abashed  in  his  presence.  Only  Taffy,  in  his  threadbare 
out-at-elbow  shooting-jacket  and  cricket  cap,  and  the 
Laird,  in  his  tattered  straw  hat  and  Taffy's  old  over- 
coat down  to  his  heels,  dared  to  walk  arm  in  arm 
with  him — nay,  insisted  on  doing  so — as  they  listened 
to  the  band  in  the  Luxembourg  Gardens. 

And  his  whiskers  were  even  longer  and  thicker  and 
more  golden  than  Taffy's  own.  But  the  mere  sight 
of  a  boxing-glove  make  him  sick. 

Then  there  was  the  yellow-haired  Antony,  a  Swiss — 
the  idle  apprentice,  le  "  roi  des  truands,"  as  we  called 


148 

him — to  whom  everything  was  forgiven,  as  to  Fran- 
§ois  Villon,  a  cause  de  ses  gentillesses  surely,  for  all 
his  reprehensible  pranks,  the  gentlest  and  most  lov- 
able creature  that  ever  lived  in  bohemia,  or  out  of  it. 

Always  in  debt,  like  Svengali — for  he  had  no  more 
notion  of  the  value  of  money  than  a  humming-bird, 
and  gave  away  in  reckless  generosity  to  friends  what 
in  strictness  belonged  to  his  endless  creditors — like 
Svengali,  humorous,  witty,  and  a  most  exquisite  and 
original  artist,  and  also  somewhat  eccentric  in  his  at- 
tire (though  scrupulously  clean),  so  that  people  would 
stare  at  him  as  he  walked  along — a  thing  that  always 
gave  him  dire  offence !  But  unlike  Svengali,  full  of 
delicacy,  refinement,  and  distinction  of  mind  and  man- 
ner— void  of  any  self-conceit — and,  in  spite  of  the  ir- 
regularities of  his  life,  the  very  soul  of  truth  and  hon- 
or, as  gentle  as  he  was  chivalrous  and  brave — the 
warmest,  stanchest,  sincerest,  most  unselfish  friend 
in  the  world ;  and,  as  long  as  his  purse  was  full,  the 
best  and  drollest  boon  companion  in  the  world — but 
that  was  not  forever ! 

When  the  money  was  gone,  then  would  Antony  hie 
him  to  some  beggarly  attic  in  some  lost  Parisian 
slum,  and  write  his  own  epitaph  in  lovely  French  or 
German  verse — or  even  English  (for  he  was  an  as- 
tounding linguist);  and,  telling  himself  that  he  was 
forsaken  by  family,  friends,  and  mistress  alike,  look 
out  of  his  casement  over  the  Paris  chimney-pots  for 
the  last  time,  and  listen  once  more  to  "  the  harmonies 
of  nature,"  as  he  called  it — and  "  aspire  towards  the  in- 
finite," and  bewail  "the  cruel  deceptions  of  his  life"- 
and  finally  lay  himself  down  to  die  of  sheer  starvation. 


144 

And  as  he  lay  and  waited  for  his  release  that  was 
go  long  in  coming,  he  would  beguile  the  weary  hours 
by  mumbling  a  crust  "  watered  with  his  own  salt 
tears,"  and  decorating  his  epitaph  with  fanciful  de- 
signs of  the  most  exquisite  humor,  pathos,  and  beauty 
—these  illustrated  epitaphs  of  the  young  Antony,  of 
which  there  exists  a  goodly  number,  are  now  price- 
less, as  all  collectors  know  all  over  the  world. 

Fainter  and  fainter  would  he  grow  —  and  finally, 
on  the  third  day  or  thereabouts,  a  remittance  would 
reach  him  from  some  long-suffering  sister  or  aunt  in 
far  Lausanne — or  else  the  fickle  mistress  or  faithless 
friend  (who  had  been  looking  for  him  all  over  Paris) 
would  discover  his  hiding-place,  the  beautiful  epitaph 
would  be  walked  off  in  triumph  to  le  pere  Marcus  in 
the  Rue  du  Ghette  and  sold  for  twenty,  fifty,  a  hun- 
dred francs — and  then  Vogue  la  galere!  And  back 
again  to  bohemia,  dear  bohemia  and  all  its  joys,  as 
long  as  the  money  lasted  .  .  .  e poi,  da  capo! 

And  now  that  his  name  is  a  household  word  in 
two  hemispheres,  and  he  himself  an  honor  and  a  glory 
to  the  land  he  has  adopted  as  his  own,  he  loves  to  re- 
member all  this  and  look  back  from  the  lofty  pinnacle 
on  which  he  sits  perched  up  aloft  to  the  impecunious 
days  of  his  idle  apprenticeship — le  bon  temps  ou  Von 
etait  si  malheureux  ! 

And  with  all  that  Quixotic  dignity  of  his,  so  fa- 
mous is  he  as  a  wit  that  when  he  jokes  (and  he  is 
always  joking)  people  laugh  first,  and  then  ask  what 
he  was  joking  about.  And  you  can  even  make  your 
own  mild  funniments  raise  a  roar  by  merely  prefacing 
them  "as  Anton v  once  said  !" 


145 

The  present  scribe  has  often  done  so. 

And  if  by  a  happy  fluke  you  should  some  day  hit 
upon  a  really  good  thing  of  your  own — good  enough 
to  be  quoted — be  sure  it  will  come  back  to  you  after 
many  days  prefaced  "  as  Antony  once  said." 

And  these  jokes  are  so  good-natured  that  you  al- 
most resent  their  being  made  at  anybody's  expense 
but  your  own — never  from  Antony 

"The  aimless  jest  that  striking  has  caused  pain, 
The  idle  word  that  he'd  wish  back  again  1" 

Indeed,  in  spite  of  his  success,  I  don't  suppose  he  ever 
made  an  enemy  in  his  life. 

And  here,  let  me  add  (lest  there  be  any  doubt  as  to 
his  identity),  that  he  is  now  tall  and  stout  and  strik- 
ingly handsome,  though  rather  bald — and  such  an  aris- 
tocrat in  bearing,  aspect,  and  manner  that  you  would 
take  him  for  a  blue-blooded  descendant  of  the  cru- 
saders instead  of  the  son  of  a  respectable  burgher  in 
Lausanne. 

Then  there  was  Lorrimer,  the  industrious  apprentice, 
who  is  now  also  well-pinnacled  on  high  ;  himself  a 
pillar  of  the  Royal  Academy — probably,  if  he  li\res 
long  enough,  its  future  president — the  duly  knighted 
or  baroneted  Lord  Mayor  of  "  all  the  plastic  arts  " 
(except  one  or  two  perhaps,  here  and  there,  that  are 
not  altogether  without  some  importance). 

May  this  not  be  for  many,  many  years !  Lorrimer 
himself  would  be  the  first  to  say  so ! 

Tall,  thin,  red-haired,  and  well-favored,  he  was  a 
most  eager,  earnest,  and  painstaking  young  enthusi- 


146 

ast,  of  precocious  culture,  who  read  improving  books, 
and  did  not  share  in  the  amusements  of  the  quartier 
latin,  but  spent  his  evenings  at  home  with  Handel, 
Michael  Angelo,  and  Dante,  on  the  respectable  side  of 
the  river.  Also,  he  went  into  good  society  sometimes, 
with  a  dress -coat  on,  and  a  white  tie,  and  his  hair 
parted  in  the  middle! 

But  in  spite  of  these  blemishes  on  his  otherwise  ex- 
emplary record  as  an  art  student,  he  was  the  most  de- 
lightful companion — the  most  affectionate,  helpful,  and 
sympathetic  of  friends.  May  he  live  long  and  prosper ! 

Enthusiast  as  he  was,  he  could  only  worship  one 
god  at  a  time.  It  was  either  Michael  Angelo,  Phidias, 
Paul  Veronese,  Tintoret,  Raphael,  or  Titian — never  a 
modern — moderns  didn't  exist!  And  so  thorough- 
going was  he  in  his  worship,  and  so  persistent  in  voic- 
ing 't,  that  he  made  those  immortals  quite  unpopular 
in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts.  "We  grew  to  dread 
their  very  names.  Each  of  them  would  last  him  a 
couple  of  months  or  so;  then  he  would  give  us  a 
month's  holiday,  and  take  up  another. 

Antony  did  not  think  much  of  Lorrimer  in  those 
days,  nor  Lorrimer  of  him,  for  all  they  were  such 
good  friends.  And  neither  of  them  thought  much  of 
Little  Billee,  whose  pinnacle  (of  pure  unadulterated 
fame)  is  now  the  highest  of  all — the  highest  probably 
that  can  be  for  a  mere  painter  of  pictures ! 

And  what  is  so  nice  about  Lorrimer,  now  that  he  is 
a  gray  beard,  an  academician,  an  accomplished  man  of 
the  world  and  society,  is  that  he  admires  Antony's 
genius  more  than  he  can  say — and  reads  Mr.  Rudyard 
Kipling's  delightful  stories  as  well  as  Dante's  "In- 


147 

ferno"  —and  can  listen  with  delight  to  the  lovely 
songs  of  Signor  Tosti,  who  has  not  precisely  founded 
himself  on  Handel — can  even  scream  with  laughter  at 
a  comic  song — even  a  nigger  melody — so,  at  least,  that 
it  but  be  sung  in  well-bred  and  distinguished  company 
— for  Lorrimer  is  no  bohemian. 


"Shoo,  fly!  don'tcher  bother  me! 
For  I  belong  to  the  Comp'ny  G  1" 


Both  these  famous  men  are  happily  (and  most  beau- 
tifully) married — grandfathers,  for  all  I  know — and 
"move  in  the  very  best  society"  (Lorrimer  always, 
I'm  told ;  Antony  now  and  then) ;  "la  haute,"  as  it  used 
to  be  called  in  French  bohemia — meaning  dukes  and 
lords  and  even  royalties,  I  suppose,  and  those  who 
love  them  and  whom  they  love. 

That  is  the  best  society,  isn't  it  ?  At  all  events,  we 
are  assured  it  used  to  be ;  but  that  must  have  been  be- 
fore the  present  scribe  (a  meek  and  somewhat  inno- 
cent outsider)  had  been  privileged  to  see  it  with  his 
own  little  eye. 

And  when  they  happen  to  meet  there  (Antony  and 
Lorrimer,  I  mean),  I  don't  expect  they  rush  very 
wildly  into  each  other's  arms,  or  talk  very  fluently 
about  old  times.  Nor  do  I  suppose  their  wives  are 
very  intimate.  None  of  our  wives  are.  Not  even 
Taffy's  and  the  Laird's. 

Oh,  Orestes!     Oh,  Pylades! 

Oh,  ye  impecunious,  unpinnacled  young  insepara- 
bles of  eighteen,  nineteen,  twenty,  even  twenty- five, 
who  share  each  other's  thoughts  and  purses,  and  wear 


148 

each  other's  clothes,  and  swear  each  other's  oaths,  and 
smoke  each  other's  pipes,  and  respect  each  other's 
lights  o'  love,  and  keep  each  other's  secrets,  and  tell 
each  other's  jokes,  and  pawn  each  other's  watches  and 
merrymake  together  on  the  proceeds,  and  sit  all  night 
by  each  other's  bedsides  in  sickness,  and  comfort  each 
other  in  sorrow  and  disappointment  with  silent,  manly 
sympathy — "  wait  till  you  get  to  forty  year !" 

Wait  even  till  each  or  either  of  you  gets  himself  a 
little  pinnacle  of  his  own — be  it  ever  so  humble ! 

Nay,  wait  till  either  or  each  of  you  gets  himself  a 
wife ! 

History  goes  on  repeating  itself,  and  so  do  novels, 
and  this  is  a  platitude,  and  there's  nothing  new  under 
the  sun. 

May  too  cecee  (as  the  idiomatic  Laird  would  say,  in 
the  language  he  adores) — may  too  cecee  ay  nee  eecee 
nee  lah ! 

Then  there  was  Dodor,  the  handsome  young  dra- 
gon de  la  garde — a  full  private,  if  you  please,  with  a 
beardless  face,  and  damask-rosy  cheeks,  and  a  small 
waist,  and  narrow  feet  like  a  lady's,  and  who,  strange 
to  say,  spoke  English  just  like  an  Englishman. 

And  his  friend  Gontran,  alias  V  Zouzou — a  corporal 
in  the  Zouaves. 

Both  of  these  worthies  had  met  Taffy  in  the  Cri- 
mea, and  frequented  the  studios  in  the  quartier  latin, 
where  they  adored  (and  were  adored  by)  the  grisettes 
and  models,  especially  Trilby. 

Both  of  them  were  distinguished  for  being  the  worst 
subjects  (les  plus  mauvais  sujets)  of  their  respective 


149 

regiments ;  yet  both  were  special  favorites  not  only 
with  their  fellow-rankers,  but  with  those  in  command, 
from  their  colonels  downward. 

Both  were  in  the  habit  of  being  promoted  to  the 
rank  of  corporal  or  brigadier,  and  degraded  to  the 
rank  of  private  next  day  for  general  misconduct,  the 
result  of  a  too  exuberant  delight  in  their  promotion. 

Neither  of  them  knew  fear,  envy,  malice,  temper,  or 
low  spirits ;  ever  said  or  did  an  ill-natured  thing;  ever 
even  thought  one ;  ever  had  an  enemy  but  himself. 
Both  had  the  best  or  the  worst  manners  going,  ac- 
cording to  their  company,  whose  manners  they  re- 
flected ;  they  were  true  chameleons ! 

Both  were  always  ready  to  share  their  last  ten-sou 
piece  (not  that  they  ever  seemed  to  have  one)  with 
each  other  or  anybody  else,  or  anybody  else's  last  ten- 
sou  piece  with  you ;  to  offer  you  a  friend's  cigar ;  to 
invite  you  to  dine  with  any  friend  they  had  ;  to  fight 
with  you,  or  for  you,  at  a  moment's  notice.  And  they 
made  up  for  all  the  anxiety,  tribulation,  shame,  and 
sorrow  they  caused  at  home  by  the  endless  fun  and 
amusement  they  gave  to  all  outside. 

It  was  a  pretty  dance  they  led ;  but  our  three 
friends  of  the  Place  St.  Anatole  (who  hadn't  got  to 
pay  the  pipers)  loved  them  both,  especially  Dodor. 

One  fine  Sunday  afternoon  Little  Billee  found  him- 
self studying  life  and  character  in  that  most  delight- 
ful and  festive  scene  la  Fete  de  St.  Cloud,  and  met 
Dodor  and  P  Zouzou  there,  who  hailed  him  with  de- 
light, saying : 

"  Nous  allons  joliment  jubiler,  nom  d'une  pipe  !"  and 
insisted  on  his  joining  in  their  amusements  and  pay- 


150 

ing  for  them  —  roundabouts,  swings,  the  giant,  the 
dwarf,  the  strong  man,  the  fat  woman — to  whom  they 
made  love  and  were  taken  too  seriously,  and  turned 
out — the  menagerie  of  wild  beasts,  whom  they  teased 
and  aggravated  till  the  police  had  to  interfere.  Also 
alfresco  dances,  where  their  cancan  step  was  of  the 
wildest  and  most  unbridled  character,  till  a  sous- 
officier  or  a  gendarme  came  in  sight,  and  then  they 
danced  quite  mincingly  and  demurely,  en  maitre 
cFecole,  as  they  called  it,  to  the  huge  delight  of  an 
immense  and  ever-increasing  crowd,  and  the  disgust 
of  all  truly  respectable  men. 

They  also  insisted  on  Little  Billee's  walking  be- 
tween them,  arm  in  arm,  and  talking  to  them  in  Eng- 
lish  whenever  they  saw  coming  towards  them  a  re- 
spectable English  family  with  daughters.  It  was  the 
dragoon's  delight  to  get  himself  stared  at  by  fair 
daughters  of  Albion  for  speaking  as  good  English 
as  themselves  —  a  rare  accomplishment  in  a  French 
trooper — and  Zouzou's  happiness  to  be  thought  Eng- 
lish too,  though  the  only  English  he  knew  was  the 
phrase  "  I  will  not !  I  will  not !"  which  he  had  picked 
up  in  the  Crimea,  and  repeated  over  and  over  again 
when  he  came  within  ear-shot  of  a  pretty  English  girl. 

Little  Billee  was  not  happy  in  these  circumstances. 
He  was  no  snob.  But  he  was  a  respectably  brought- 
up  young  Briton  of  the  higher  middle  class,  and  it  was 
not  quite  pleasant  for  him  to  be  seen  (by  fair  country- 
women of  his  own)  walking  arm  in  arm  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon  with  a  couple  of  French  private  soldiers,  and 
uncommonly  rowdy  ones  at  that. 

Later,  they  came  back  to  Paris  together  on  the  top 


k, r"  trtrfw 


"  '  I    WILL    NOT  !     I    WILL    NOT  !'  " 


153 

of  an  omnibus,  among  a  very  proletarian  crowd,  and 
there  the  two  facetious  warriors  immediately  made 
themselves  pleasant  all  round  and  became  very  popu- 
lar, especially  with  the  women  and  children;  but  not. 
I  regret  to  say,  through  the  propriety,  refinement,  and 
discretion  of  their  behavior.  Little  Billee  resolved 
that  he  would  not  go  a -pleasuring  with  them  any 
more. 

However,  they  stuck  to  him  through  thick  and  thin, 
and  insisted  on  escorting  him  all  the  way  back  to  the 
quartier  latin,  by  the  Pont  de  la  Concorde  and  the 
Rue  de  Lille  in  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 

Little  Billee  loved  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain,  es- 
pecially the  Rue  de  Lille.  He  was  fond  of  gazing  at 
the  magnificent  old  mansions,  the  "  hotels"  of  the  old 
French  noblesse,  or  rather  the  outside  walls  thereof, 
the  grand  sculptured  portals  with  the  armorial  bear- 
ings and  the  splendid  old  historic  names  above  t hem- 
Hotel  de  This,  Hotel  de  That,  Rohan-Chabot,  Mont- 
morency,  La  Rochefoucauld-Liancourt,  La  Tour  d'Au- 
vergne. 

He  would  forget  himself  in  romantic  dreams  of  past 
and  forgotten  French  chivalry  which  these  glorious 
names  called  up;  for  he  knew  a  little  of  French  his- 
tory, loving  to  read  Froissart  and  Saint-Simon  and  the 
genial  Brantome. 

Halting  opposite  one  of  the  finest  and  oldest  of  all 
these  gateways,  his  especial  favorite,  labelled  "  Hotel 
de  la  Rochemartel"  in  letters  of  faded  gold  over  a 
ducal  coronet  and  a  huge  escutcheon  of  stone,  he  be- 
gan to  descant  upon  its  architectural  beauties  and 
noble  proportions  to  1'  Zouzou. 


153 


"  Parbleu  /"  said  1'  Zouzou,  "  connu,  farceur ! 
why,  I  was  lorn  there,  on  the  6th  of  March,  1834, 
at  5.30  in  the  morning.  Lucky  day  for  France — 
hein  f" 

"  Born  there  ?  what  do  you  mean  —  in  the  porter's 
lodge?" 

At  this  juncture  the  two  great  gates  rolled  back,  a 
liveried  Suisse  appeared,  and  an  open  carriage  and 

pair  came  out,  and  in 
Jt  were  two  elderly 
ladies  and  a  younger 
one. 

To   Little    Billee's 


DODOR   IN   HIS  GLOET 


154 

indignation,  the  two  incorrigible  warriors  made  the 

military  salute,  and  the  three  ladies  bowed  stiffly  and 

gravely. 
And  then  (to  Little  Billee's  horror  this  time)  one  of 

them  happened  to  look  back,  and  Zouzou  actually 

kissed  his  hand  to  her. 
"  Do  you  know  that  lady  ?"  asked  Little  Billee,  very 

sternly. 

"  Parbleu  !  sije  la  connais  !   Why,  it's  my  mother ! 

Isn't  she  nice  ?    She's  rather  cross  with  me  just  now." 
"  Your  mother  !    "Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?    What 

on  earth  would  your  mother  be  doing  in  that  big  car- 
riage and  at  that  big  house  ?" 
"  Parbleu,  farceur  !     She  lives  there !" 
"Lives  there!    Why,  who  and  what  is  she,  your 

mother?" 
"  The  Duchesse  de  la  Rochemartel,  parbleu !  and 

that's  my  sister;   and   that's  my  aunt,  Princess   de 

Chevagn6  -  Bauffremont !      She's   the    ' patronne '   of 

that   chic  equipage.     She's   a  millionaire,  my  aunt 

Chevagne" !" 

"  Well,  I  never !    What's  your  name,  then  ?" 
"Oh,  my  name!     Hang  it  —  let  me  see!    Well — 

Gontran  —  Xavier  —  Francois — Marie — Joseph  d' Am- 

aury — Brissac  de  Eoncesvaulx  de  la  Rochemartel-Bois- 

segur,  at  your  service !" 

"  Quite  correct !"  said  Dodor ;  "  V enfant  dit  vrai  /" 
"  Well — I — never !  And  what'?  your  name,  Dodor  ?" 
"  Oh  !  I'm  only  a  humble  individual,  and  answer  to 

the  one-horse  name  of  Theodore  Rigolot  de  Lafarce. 

But  Zouzou's  an  awful  swell,  you  know — his  brother's 

the  Duke!" 


HOTEL   DE   LA   ROCHEMARTEL 


166 

Little  Billee  was  no  snob.  But  he  was  a  respectably 
brought-up  young  Briton  of  the  higher  middle  class, 
and  these  revelations,  which  he  could  not  but  believe, 
astounded  him  so  that  he  could  hardly  speak.  Much 
as  he  flattered  himself  that  he  scorned  the  bloated 
aristocracy,  titles  are  titles  —  even  French  titles!— 
and  when  it  comes  to  dukes  and  princesses  who  live  in 
houses  like  the  Hotel  de  la  Rochemartel . . . ! 

It's  enough  to  take  a  respectably  brought-up  young 
Briton's  breath  away ! 

When  he  saw  Taffy  that  evening,  he  exclaimed  :  "  I 
say,  Zouzou's  mother's  a  duchess !" 

"  Yes— the  Duchesse  de  la  Rochemartel-Boissegur." 

"  You  never  told  me !" 

"  You  never  asked  me.  It's  one  of  the  greatest 
names  in  France.  They're  very  poor,  I  believe." 

"  Poor !     You  should  see  the  house  they  live  in  !'' 

"  I've  been  there,  to  dinner ;  and  the  dinner  wasn't 
very  good.  They  let  a  great  part  of  it,  and  live  most- 
ly in  the  country.  The  Duke  is  Zouzou's  brother; 
very  unlike  Zouzou ;  he's  consumptive  and  unmarried, 
and  the  most  respectable  man  in  Paris.  Zouzou  will 
be  the  Duke  some  day." 

"  And  Dodor — he's  a  swell,  too,  I  suppose — he  says 
he's  de  something  or  other!" 

"  Yes  —  Rigolot  de  Lafarce.  I've  no  doubt  he  de- 
scends from  the  Crusaders,  too ;  the  name  seems  to 
favor  it,  anyhow ;  and  such  lots  of  them  do  in  this 
country.  His  mother  was  English,  and  bore  the 
worthy  name  of  Brown.  He  was  at  school  in  Eng- 
land ;  that's  why  he  speaks  English  so  well — and  be- 
haves so  badly,  perhaps !  He's  got  a  very  beautiful 


157 

sister,  married  to  a  man  in  the  60th  Rifles  —  Jack 
Reeve,  a  son  of  Lord  Reevely's ;  a  selfish  sort  of  chap. 
I  don't  suppose  he  gets  on  very  well  with  his  brother- 
in-law.  Poor  Dodor!  His  sister's  about  the  only 
living  thing  he  cares  for — except  Zouzou." 

I  wonder  if  the  bland  and  genial  Monsieur  Theodore 
— "  notre  Sieur  Theodore  " — now  junior  partner  in  the 
great  haberdashery  firm  of  "  Passefil  et  Rigolot,"  on 
the  Boulevard  des  Capucines,  and  a  pillar  of  the  Eng- 
lish chapel  in  the  Rue  Marboeuf,  is  very  hard  on  his 
employes  and  employees  if  they  are  a  little  late  at 
their  counters  on  a  Monday  morning  ? 

I  wonder  if  that  stuck-up,  stingy,  stodgy,  com- 
munard-shooting, church -going,  time-serving,  place- 
hunting,  pious-eyed,  pompous  old  prig,  martinet,  and 
philistine,  Monsieur  le  Marechal-Duc  de  la  Roche- 
martel  -  Boissegur,  ever  tells  Madame  la  Marechale- 
Duchesse  (nee  Hunks,  of  Chicago)  how  once  upon  a 
time  Dodor  and  he — 

We  will  tell  no  tales  out  of  school. 

The  present  scribe  is  no  snob.  He  is  a  respectably 
brought-up  old  Briton  of  the  higher  middle-class — at 
least,  he  flatters  himself  so.  And  he  writes  for  just 
such  old  philistines  as  himself,  who  date  from  a  time 
when  titles  were  not  thought  so  cheap  as  to  -  day. 
Alas  !  all  reverence  for  all  that  is  high  and  time-hon- 
ored and  beautiful  seems  at  a  discount. 

So  he  has  kept  his  blackguard  ducal  Zouave  for  the 
bouquet  of  this  little  show — the  final  bonne  bouche  in 
his  bohemian  menu — that  he  may  make  it  palatable 
to  those  who  only  look  upon  the  good  old  quartier 


15S 

latin  (now  no  more  to  speak  of)  as  a  very  low,  com- 
mon, vulgar  quarter  indeed,  deservedly  swept  away, 
where  misters  the  students  (shocking  bounders  and 
cads)  had  nothing  better  to  do,  day  and  night,  than 
mount  up  to  a  horrid  place  called  the  thatched  house 
— la  chaumiere — 

"  Pour  y  danser  le  cancan 

On  le  Robert  Macaire — 

Toujours — tou  jours — toujours— 

La  unit  com  me  le  jour  .  .  . 

Et  youp  1  youp  I  yoiip  ! 
Tra  la  la  la  la  .     .  la  la  la  1" 


Christmas  was  drawing  near. 

There  were  days  when  the  whole  quartier  latin 
would  veil  its  iniquities  under  fogs  almost  worthy  of 
the  Thames  Valley  between  London  Bridge  and  West- 
minster, and  out  of  the  studio  window  the  prospect 
was  a  dreary  blank.  No  morgue !  no  towers  of  Notre 
Dame!  not  even  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way — not 
even  the  little  mediaeval  toy  turret  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  Vieille  des  Mauvais  Ladres,  Little  Billee's  de- 
light ! 

The  stove  had  to  be  crammed  till  its  sides  grew  a 
dull  deep  red  before  one's  fingers  could  hold  a  brush 
or  squeeze  a  bladder ;  one  had  to  box  or  fence  at  nine 
in  the  morning,  that  one  might  recover  from  the  cold 
bath,  and  get  warm  for  the  rest  of  the  day ! 

Taffy  and  the  Laird  grew  pensive  and  dreamy, 
childlike  and  bland  ;  and  when  they  talked  it  was  gen- 


erally  about  Christmas  at  home  in  merry  England  and 
the  distant  land  of  cakes,  and  how  good  it  was  to  be 
there  at  such  a  time — hunting,  shooting,  curling,  and 
endless  carouse ! 

It  was  Ho!  for  the  jolly  West  Riding,  and  Hey! 
for  the  bonnets  of  Bonnie  Dundee,  till  they  grew  quite 
homesick,  and  wanted  to  start  by  the  very  next 
train. 

They  didn't  do  anything  so  foolish.  They  wrote 
over  to  friends  in  London  for  the  biggest  turkey,  the 
biggest  plum  -  pudding,  that  could  be  got  for  love  or 
money,  with  mince-pies,  and  holly  and  mistletoe,  and 
sturdy,  short,  thick  English  sausages,  half  a  Stilton 
cheese,  and  a  sirloin  of  beef — two  sirloins,  in  case  one 
should  not  be  enough. 

For  they  meant  to  have  a  Homeric  feast  in  the 
studio  on  Christmas  Day — Taffy,  the  Laird,  and  Little 
Billee — and  invite  all  the  delightful  chums  I  have  been 
trying  to  describe ;  and  that  is  just  why  I  tried  to  de- 
scribe them — Durien,  Vincent,  Antony,  Lorrimer,  Car- 
negie, Petrol icoconose,  1'  Zouzou,  and  Dodor ! 

The  cooking  and  waiting  should  be  done  by  Trilby, 
her  friend  Angele  Boisse,  M.  et  Mme.  Yinard,  and 
such  little  Vinards  as  could  be  trusted  with  glass  and 
crockery  and  mince-pies ;  and  if  that  was  not  enough, 
they  would  also  cook  themselves  and  wait  upon  each 
other. 

When  dinner  should  be  over,  supper  was  to  follow 
with  scarcely  any  interval  to  speak  of ;  and  to  partake 
of  this  other  guests  should  be  bidden — Svengali  and 
Gecko,  and  perhaps  one  or  two  more.  No  ladies  ! 

For,  as  the  unsusceptible  Laird  expressed  it,  in  the 


160 

language  of  a  gillie  he  had  once  met  at  a  servants' 
dance  in  a  Highland  country-house,  "  Them  wimmen 
spiles  the  ball !" 

Elaborate  cards  of  invitation  were  sent  out,  in  the 
designing  and  ornamentation  of  which  the  Laird  and 
Taffy  exhausted  all  their  fancy  (Little  Billee  had  no 
time). 

Wines  and  spirits  and  English  beers  were  procured 
at  great  cost  from  M.  E.  Delevingne's,  in  the  Rue  St. 
llonore,  and  liqueurs  of  every  description — chartreuse, 
cura£oa,  ratafia  de  cassis,  and  anisette ;  no  expense 
was  spared. 

Also,  truffled  galantines  of  turkey,  tongues,  hams, 
rillettes  de  Tours,  pates  de  foie  gras,  "  f romage  d'ltalie  " 
(which  has  nothing  to  do  with  cheese),  saucissons 
d'Arles  et  de  Lyon,  with  and  without  garlic,  cold  jel- 
lies peppery  and  salt — everything  that  French  char- 
cutiers  and  their  wives  can  make  out  of  French  pigs, 
or  any  other  animal  whatever,  beast,  bird,  or  fowl 
(even  cats  and  rats),  for  the  supper ;  and  sweet  jellies, 
and  cakes,  and  sweetmeats,  and  confections  of  all 
kinds,  from  the  famous  pastry-cook  at  the  corner  of 
the  Rue  Castiglione. 

Mouths  went  watering  all  day  long  in  joyful  antici- 
pation. They  water  somewhat  sadly  now  at  the  mere 
remembrance  of  these  delicious  things — the  mere  im- 
mediate sight  or  scent  of  which  in  these  degenerate 
latter  days  would  no  longer  avail  to  promote  any  such 
delectable  secretion.  Helas !  ahimt- !  ach  weh !  ay  de 
mi!  eheu  !  ofyzoi — in  point  of  fact, alas! 

That  is  the  very  exclamation  I  wanted. 

Christmas  Eve  came  round.    The  pieces  of  resistance 


,     \.:.(t'!$£*  •"'  :'-     li "'- 

lifiw-Si^fe '-iili 

;  s  w  lm  ^aatel1 


CHRISTMAS  KVK 


162 

and  plum-padding  and  mince-pies  had  not  yet  arrived 
from  London — but  there  was  plenty  of  time. 

Les  trois  Angliches  dined  at  le  pere  Trin's,  as  usual, 
and  played  billiards  and  dominos  at  the  Caf6  du  Lux- 
embourg, and  possessed  their  souls  in  patience  till  it 
was  time  to  go  and  hear  the  midnight  mass  at  the 
Madeline,  where  Roucouly,  the  great  barytone  of  the 
Opera  Comique,  was  retained  to  sing  Adam's  famous 
Noel. 

The  whole  quartier  seemed  alive  with  the  reveillon. 
It  was  a  clear,  frosty  night,  with  a  splendid  moon  just 
past  the  full,  and  most  exhilarating  was  the  walk 
along  the  quays  on  the  Rive  Gauche,  over  the  Pont  de 
la  Concorde  and  across  the  Place  thereof,  and  up  the 
thronged  Rue  de  la  Madeleine  to  the  massive  Par- 
thenaic  place  of  worship  that  always  has  such  a  pagan, 
worldly  look  of  smug  and  prosperous  modernity. 

They  struggled  manfully,  and  found  standing  and 
kneeling  room  among  that  fervent  crowd,  and  heard 
the  impressive  service  with  mixed  feelings,  as  became 
true  Britons  of  very  advanced  liberal  and  religious 
opinions ;  not  with  the  unmixed  contempt  of  the  proper 
British  Orthodox  (who  were  there  in  full  force,  one 
may  be  sure). 

But  their  susceptible  hearts  soon  melted  at  the  beau- 
tiful music,  and  in  mere  sensuous  attend  rissement  they 
were  quickly  in  unison  with  all  the  rest. 

For  as  the  clock  struck  twelve  out  pealed  the  organ, 
and  up  rose  the  finest  voice  in  France : 

"  Minuit,  Chretiens  !  c'est  1'heure  solennelle 
Oil  1'Homme-Dieu  descendit  pnrmi  nou8  1" 


163 


And  a  wave  of  religious  emotion  rolled  over  Little 
Billee  and  submerged  him  ;  swept  him  off  his  little 
legs,  swept  him  out  of  his  little  self,  drowned  him  in 
a  great  seething  surge  of  love — love  of  his  kind,  love 
of  love,  love  of  life,  love  of  death,  love  of  all  that  is 


"  '  ALLONS  GLYCERE  !  ROUOIS  MON  VERRE.  .  .  .'  " 

and  ever  was  and  ever  will  be — a  very  large  order 
indeed,  even  for  Little  Billee. 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  stretched  out  his 
arms  for  love  to  one  figure  especially  beloved  beyond 


164 

all  the  rest— one  figure  erect  on  high  with  arms  out- 
stretched to  him,  in  more  than  common  fellowship  of 
need ;  not  the  sorrowful  figure  crowned  with  thorns, 
for  it  was  in  the  likeness  of  a  woman  ;  but  never  that 
of  the  Virgin  Mother  of  Our  Lord. 

It  was  Trilby,  Trilby,  Trilby!  a  poor  fallen  sinner 
and  waif  all  but  lost  amid  the  scum  of  the  most  cor- 
rupt city  on  earth.  Trilby  weak  and  mortal  like  him 
self,  and  in  woful  want  of  pardon !  and  in  her  gray 
dovelike  eyes  he  saw  the  shining  of  so  great  a  love 
that  he  was  abashed ;  for  well  he  knew  that  all  that 
love  was  his,  and  would  be  his  forever,  come  what 
would  or  could. 

"Peuple,  debout !    Chante  ta  delivrance  I 
Noil!  Noel!     Void  le  Eedempteur  !" 

So  sang  and  rang  and  pealed  and  echoed  the  big, 
deep,  metallic  barytone  bass — above  the  organ,  above 
the  incense,  above  evervthing  else  in  the  world — till 

•/ 

the  very  universe  seemed  to  shake  with  the  rolling 
thunder  of  that  great  message  of  love  and  forgiveness ! 

Thus  at  least  felt  Little  Billee,  whose  way  it  was  to 
magnify  and  exaggerate  all  things  under  the  subtle 
stimulus  of  sound,  and  the  singing  human  voice  had 
especially  strange  power  to  penetrate  into  his  inmost 
depths — even  the  voice  of  man ! 

And  what  voice  but  the  deepest  and  gravest  and 
grandest  there  is  can  give  worthy  utterance  to  such 
a  message  as  that,  the  epitome,  the  abstract,  the  very 
essence  of  all  collective  humanity's  wisdom  at  its 
best! 


165 

Little  Billee  reached  the  Hotel  Corneille  that  night 
in  a  very  exalted  frame  of  mind  indeed,  the  loftiest, 
lowliest  mood  of  all. 

Now  see  what  sport  we  are  of  trivial,  base,  ignoble 
earthly  things ! 

Sitting  on  the  door-step  and  smoking  two  cigars  at 
once  he  found  Ribot,  one  of  his  fellow-lodgers,  whose 
room  was  just  under  his  own.  Ribot  was  so  tipsy 
that  he  could  not  ring.  But  he  could  still  sing,  and 
did  so  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  It  was  not  the  Noel 
of  Adam  that  he  sang.  He  had  not  spent  his  reveil- 
lon  in  any  church. 

"With  the  help  of  a  sleepy  waiter,  Little  Billee  got 
the  bacchanalian  into  his  room  and  lit  his  candle  for 
him,  and,  disengaging  himself  from  his  maudlin  em- 
braces, left  him  to  wallow  in  solitude. 

As  he  lay  awake  in  his  bed,  trying  to  recall  the 
deep  and  high  emotions  of  the  evening,  he  heard  the 
tipsy  hog  below  tumbling  about  his  room  and  still  try- 
ing to  sing  his  senseless  ditty  : 

"  Aliens,  Glycdre ! 

Rougis  mon  verre 
Du  jus  divin  dont  mon  cceur  est  tonjours  jaloux  .  .  . 

Et  puis  £  table, 

Bacchante  aimable  ! 
Enivrons-nous  (hie)  Les  g-glougloux  sont  des  rendezvous  !"  .  .  . 

Then  the  song  ceased  for  a  while,  and  soon  there 
were  other  sounds,  as  on  a  Channel  steamer.  Gloa- 
gloux  indeed ! 

Then  the  fear  arose  in  Little  Billee's  mind  lest  the 
drunken  beast  should  set  fire  to  his  bedroom  cur- 


166 

tains.  All  heavenly  visions  were  chased  away  for  the 
night.  .  .  . 

Our  hero,  half -crazed  with  fear,  disgust,  and  irri- 
tation, lay  wide  awake,  his  nostrils  on  the  watch  for 
the  smell  of  burning  chintz  or  muslin,  and  wondered 
how  an  educated  man — for  Ribot  was  a  law-student — 
could  ever  make  such  a  filthy  beast  of  himself  as  that ! 
It  was  a  scandal — a  disgrace ;  it  was  not  to  be  borne ; 
there  should  be  no  forgiveness  for  such  as  Ribot — not 
even  on  Christmas  Day!  He  would  complain  to 
Madame  Paul,  the  patronne ;  he  would  have  Ribot 
turned  out  into  the  street ;  he  would  leave  the  ho- 
tel himself  the  very  next  morning !  At  last  he  fell 
asleep,  thinking  of  all  he  would  do;  and  thus,  ridic- 
ulously and  ignominiously  for  Little  Billee,  ended  the 
reveillon. 

Next  morning  he  complained  to  Madame  Paul ;  and 
though  he  did  not  give  her  warning,  nor  even  insist  on 
the  expulsion  of  Ribot  (who,  as  he  heard  with  a  hard 
heart,  was  "bien  malade  ce  matin"),  he  expressed 
himself  very  severely  on  the  conduct  of  that  gentle- 
man, and  on  the  dangers  from  fire  that  might  arise 
from  a  tipsy  man  being  trusted  alone  in  a  small  bed- 
room with  chintz  curtains  and  a  lighted  candle.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  himself,  he  told  her,  Ribot  would  have 
slept  on  the  door-step,  and  serve  him  right!  He 
was  really  grand  in  his  virtuous  indignation,  in  spite 
of  his  imperfect  French ;  and  Madame  Paul  was  deep- 
ly contrite  for  her  peccant  lodger,  and  profuse  in  her 
apologies ;  and  Little  Billee  began  his  twenty  -  first 
Christmas  Day  like  a  Pharisee,  thanking  his  star  that 
he  was  not  as  Ribot ! 


part  f  ourtb 

"Felicite  passee 
Qui  ne  peux  revenir, 
Tourraent  de  ma  pensee, 
Que  n'ay-je,  en  te  perdant,  perdu  le  souvenir  1" 

MID-DAT  had  struck.  The  expected  hamper  had  not 
turned  up  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts. 

All  Madame  Vinard's  kitchen  battery  was  in  readi- 
ness ;  Trilby  and  Madame  Angele  Boisse  were  in  the 
studio,  their  sleeves  turned  up,  and  ready  to  begin. 

At  twelve  the  trois  Angliches  and  the  two  fair 
blanchisseuses  sat  down  to  lunch  in  a  very  anxious 
frame  of  mind,  and  finished  a  pate  de  foie  gras  and 
two  bottles  of  Burgundy  between  them,  such  was  their 
disquietude. 

The  guests  had  been  invited  for  six  o'clock. 

Most  elaborately  they  laid  the  cloth  on  the  table 
they  had  borrowed  from  the  Hotel  de  Seine,  and  set- 
tled who  was  to  sit  next  to  whom,  and  then  unsettled 
it,  and  quarrelled  over  it — Trilby,  as  was  her  wont  in 
such  matters,  assuming  an  authority  that  did  not  right- 
ly belong  to  her,  and  of  course  getting  her  own  way 
in  the  end. 

And  that,  as  the  Laird  remarked,  was  her  confound- 
ed Trilby  ness. 

Two  o'clock — three — four — but  no  hamper  !  Dark- 
ness had  almost  set  in.  It  was  simply  maddening, 


They  knelt  on  the 
divan,  with  their  el- 
bows on  the  window- 
sill,  and  watched  the 
street  lamps  popping 
into  life  along  the 
quays — and  looked  out 
80rviNIR  through  the  gathering 

dusk  for  the  van  from 

the  Cherain  de  Fer  du  Kord — and  gloomily  thought 

of  the  Morgue,  which  they  could  still  make  out  across 

the  river. 

At  length  the  Laird  and  Trilby  went  off  in  a  cab  to 

the  station — a  long  drive — and,  lo !  before  they  came 

back  the  long-expected  hamper  arrived,  at  six  o'clock. 
And  with  it   Durien,  Vincent,  Antony,  Lorrimer, 

Carnegie,  Petrolicoconose,  Dodor,  and  T  Zouzou — the 

last  two  in  uniform,  as  usual. 
And  suddenly  the  studio,  which  had  been  so  silent, 

dark,  and  dull,  with  Taffy  and  Little  Billee  sitting 


169 

hopeless  and  despondent  round  the  stove,  became  a 
scene  of  the  noisiest,  busiest,  and  cheerfulest  anima- 
tion. The  three  big  lamps  were  lit,  and  all  the  Chi- 
nese lanterns.  The  pieces  of  resistance  and  the  pud- 
ding were  whisked  off  by  Trilby,  Angele,  and  Madame 
Vinard  to  other  regions — the  porter's  lodge  and  Duri- 
en's  studio  (which  had  been  lent  for  the  purpose) ;  and 
every  one  was  pressed  into  the  preparations  for  the 
banquet.  There  was  plenty  for  idle  hands  to  do. 
Sausages  to  be  fried  for  the  turkey,  stuffing  made, 
and  sauces,  salads  mixed,  and  punch — holly  hung  in 
festoons  all  round  and  about — a  thousand  things. 
Everybody  was  so  clever  and  good-humored  that  no- 
body got  in  anybody's  way — not  even  Carnegie,  who 
was  in  evening  dress  (to  the  Laird's  delight).  So  they 
made  him  do  the  scullion's  work — cleaning,  rinsing, 
peeling,  etc. 

The  cooking  of  the  dinner  was  almost  better  fun 
than  the  eating  of  it.  And  though  there  were  so 
many  cooks,  not  even  the  broth  was  spoiled  (cocka- 
leekie,  from  a  receipt  of  the  Laird's). 

It  was  ten  o'clock  before  they  sat  down  to  that 
most  memorable  repast. 

Zouzou  and  Dodor,  who  had  been  the  most  useful 
and  energetic  of  all  its  cooks,  apparently  quite  forgot 
they  were  due  at  tb  eir  respective  barracks  at  that  very 
moment :  they  had  only  been  able  to  obtain  "  la  per- 
mission de  dix  heures."  If  they  remembered  it,  the 
certainty  that  next  day  Zouzou  would  be  reduced  to 
the  ranks  for  the  fifth  time,  and  Dodor  confined  to 
his  barracks  for  a  month,  did  not  trouble  them  in  the 
least. 


170 

The  waiting  was  as  good  as  the  cooking.  The  hand- 
some, quick,  authoritative  Madame  Vinard  was  in  a 
dozen  places  at  once,  and  openly  prompted,  rebuked, 
and  ballyragged  her  husband  into  a  proper  smart 
ness.  The  pretty  little  Madame  Angele  moved  about 
as  deftly  and  as  quietly  as  a  mouse ;  which  of  course 
did  not  prevent  them  both  from  genially  joining  in 
the  general  conversation  whenever  it  wandered  into 
French. 

Trilby,  tall,  graceful,  and  stately,  and  also  swift  of 
action,  though  more  like  Juno  or  Diana  than  Hebe, 
devoted  herself  more  especially  to  her  own  particular 
favorites — Durien,  Taffy,  the  Laird,  Little  Billee — and 
Dodor  and  Zouzou,  whom  she  loved,  and  tutoye'd  en 
bonne  camarade  as  she  served  them  with  all  there  was 
of  the  choicest. 

The  two  little  Yinards  did  their  little  best  —  they 
scrupulously  respected  the  mince-pies,  and  only  broke 
two  bottles  of  oil  and  one  of  Harvey  sauce,  which 
made  their  mother  furious.  To  console  them,  the 
Laird  took  one  of  them  on  each  knee  and  gave  them 
of  his  share  of  plum-pudding  and  many  other  unac- 
customed good  things,  so  bad  for  their  little  French 
tumtums. 

The  genteel  Carnegie  had  never  been  at  such  a  queer 
scene  in  his  life.  It  opened  his  mind — and  Dodor  and 
Zouzou,  between  wrhom  he  sat  (the  Laird  thought  it 
would  do  him  good  to  sit  between  a  private  soldier 
and  a  humble  corporal),  taught  him  more  French 
than  he  had  learned  during  the  three  months  he  had 
spent  in  Paris.  It  was  a  specialty  of  theirs.  It  was 
more  colloquial  than  what  is  generally  used  in  dip- 


171 

lomatic  circles,  and  stuck  longer  in  the  memory ;  but 
it  hasn't  interfered  with  his  preferment  in  the  Church. 

He  quite  unbent.  He  was  the  first  to  volunteer  a 
song  (without  being  asked)  when  the  pipes  and  cigars 
were  lit,  and  after  the  usual  toasts  had  been  drunk — 
her  Majesty's  health,  Tennyson,  Thackeray,  and  Dick- 
ens ;  and  John  Leech. 

He  sang,  with  a  very  cracked  and  rather  hiccupy 
voice,  his  only  song  (it  seems)  —  an  English  one,  of 
which  the  burden,  he  explained,  was  French : 

"Veeverler  veeverler  veeverler  vee 
Veeverler  companyee  !" 

And  Zouzou  and  Dodor  complimented  him  so  pro- 
fusely on  his  French  accent  that  he  was  with  difficulty 
prevented  from  singing  it  all  over  again. 

Then  everybody  sang  in  rotation. 

The  Laird,  with  a  capital  barytone,  sang 

"Hie  diddle  Dee  for  the  Lowlands  low," 

which  was  encored. 
Little  Billee  sang  "  Little  Billee." 
Vincent  sang 

"Old  Joe  kicking  up  behind  and  afore, 
And  the  yaller  gal  a-kicking  up  behind  old  Joe." 

A  capital  song,  with  words  of  quite  a  masterly  scan- 
sion. 

Antony  sang  "  Le  Sire  de  Framboisy."  Enthusia*- 
tic  encore. 


173 

Lorrimer,  inspired  no  doubt  by  the  occasion,  sang 
the  "  Hallelujah  Chorus,"  and  accompanied  himself  on 
the  piano,  but  failed  to  obtain  an  encore. 

Durien  sang 

"Plaisir  d'amour  ne  dure  qu'un  moment; 
Chagrin  d'amour  dure  toute  la  vie  .  .  ." 

It  was  his  favorite  song,  and  one  of  the  beautiful  songs 
of  the  world,  and  he  sang  it  very  well — and  it  became 
popular  in  the  quartier  latin  ever  after. 

The  Greek  couldn't  sing,  and  very  wisely  didn't. 

Zouzou  sang  capitally  a  capital  song  in  praise  of  *'  le 
vin  a  quat'  sous !" 

Taffy,  in  a  voice  like  a  high  wind  (and  with  a  very 
good  imitation  of  the  Yorkshire  brogue),  sang  a  Som- 
ersetshire hunting-ditty,  ending : 

"Of  this  'ere  song  should  I  be  axed  the  reason  for  to  show, 
I  don't  exactly  know,  I  don't  exactly  know  I 
But  all  my  fancy  dwells  upon  Nancy, 
And  I  sing  Tally-ho  !" 

It  is  a  quite  superexcellent  ditty,  and  haunts  my 
memory  to  this  day ;  and  one  felt  sure  that  Nancy 
was  a  dear  and  a  sweet,  wherever  she  lived,  and  when. 
So  Taffy  was  encored  twice — once  for  her  sake,  once 
for  his  own. 

And  finally,  to  the  surprise  of  all,  the  bold  dragoon 
sang  (in  English) "  My  Sister  Dear,"  out  of  Masanidlo, 
with  such  pathos,  and  in  a  voice  so  sweet  and  high 
and  well  in  tune,  that  his  audience  felt  almost  weepy 
in  the  midst  of  their  jollification,  and  grew  quite  sen- 


174 

timental,  as  Englishmen  abroad  are  apt  to  do  when 
they  are  rather  tipsy  and  hear  pretty  music,  and  think 
of  their  dear  sisters  across  the  sea,  or  their  friends'  dear 
sisters. 

Madame  Yinard  interrupted  her  Christmas  dinner 
on  the  model-throne  to  listen,  and  wept  and  wiped  her 
eyes  quite  openly,  and  remarked  to  Madame  Boisse, 
who  stood  modestly  close  by:  "II  est  gentil  tout  plein, 
ce  dragon!  Mon  Dieu  !  comme  il  chante  bienl  II  est 
Angliche  aussi,  il  parait.  Us  sont  joliment  bien  e'leves, 
tons  ces  Angliches — tous  plus  gentils  les  uns  que  les 
autres!  et  quant  a  Monsieur  Litrebili,  on  lui  donnerait 
le  bon  Dieu  sans  confession !" 

And  Madame  Boisse  agreed. 

Then  Svengali  and  Gecko  came,  and  the  table  had 
to  be  laid  and  decorated  anew,  for  it  was  supper- 
time. 

Supper  was  even  jollier  than  dinner,  which  had  taken 
off  the  keen  edge  of  the  appetites,  so  that  every  one 
talked  at  once — the  true  test  of  a  successful  supper — 
except  when  Antony  told  some  of  his  experiences  of 
bohemia ;  for  instance,  how,  after  staying  at  home  all 
day  for  a  month  to  avoid  his  creditors,  he  became  reck- 
less one  Sunday  morning,  and  went  to  the  Bains  De- 
ligny,  and  jumped  into  a  deep  part  by  mistake,  and 
was  saved  from  a  watery  grave  by  a  bold  swimmer, 
who  turned  out  to  be  his  boot-maker,  Satory,  to  whom 
he  owed  sixty  francs — of  all  his  duns  the  one  he  dread- 
ed the  most — and  who  didn't  let  him  go  in  a  hurry. 

"Whereupon  Svengali  remarked  that  he  also  owed  six- 
ty francs  to  Satory — "  Mais  comme  che  ne  me  baigne 
chamais,  che  n'ai  rien  a  craindre !" 


175 


Whereupon  there  was  such  a  laugh  that  Svengali 
felt  he  had  scored  off  Antony  at  last  and  had  a  prettier 
wit.  He  flattered  himself  that  he'd  got  the  laugh  of 
Antony  this  time. 

And  after  supper  Svengali  and  Gecko  made  such 
lovely  music  that  everybody  was  sobered  and  athirst 
again,  and  the  punch-bowl,  wreathed  with  holly  and 
mistletoe,  was  placed  in  the  middle  of  the  table,  and 
clean  glasses  set  all  round  it. 


A  DUCAL   FRENCH    FIGHTING-COCK 


Then  Dodor  and  1'  Zouzou  stood  up  to  dance  with 
Trilby  and  Madame  Angele,  and  excuted  a  series  of 
cancan  steps,  which,  though  they  were  so  inimitably 
droll  that  they  had  each  and  all  to  be  encored,  were 
such  that  not  one  of  them  need  have  brought  the  blush 
of  shame  to  the  cheek  of  modesty. 


176 

Then  the  Laird  danced  a  sword-dance  over  two  T 
squares  and  broke  them  both.  And  Taffy,  baring  his 
mighty  arms  to  the  admiring  gaze  of  all,  did  dumb- 
bell exercises,  with  Little  Billee  for  a  dumb-bell,  and  all 
but  dropped  him  into  the  punch-bowl ;  and  tried  to  cut 
a  pewter  ladle  in  two  with  Dodor's  sabre,  and  sent  it 
through  the  window;  and  this  made  him  cross,  so  that 
he  abused  French  sabres,  and  said  they  were  made  of 
worse  pewter  than  even  French  ladles ;  and  the  Laird 
sententiously  opined  that  they  managed  these  things 
better  in  England,  and  winked  at  Little  Billee. 

Then  they  played  at  "cock-fighting,"  with  their 
wrists  tied  across  their  shins,  and  a  broomstick  thrust 
in  between;  thus  manacled,  you  are  placed  opposite 
your  antagonist,  and  try  to  upset  him  with  your  feet, 
and  he  you.  It  is  a  very  good  game.  The  cuirassier 
and  the  Zouave  playing  at  this  got  so  angry,  and 
were  so  irresistibly  funny  a  sight,  that  the  shouts  of 
laughter  could  be  heard  on  the  other  side  of  the  river, 
so  that  a  sergent  de  ville  came  in  and  civilly  request- 
ed them  not  to  make  so  much  noise.  They  were  dis- 
turbing the  whole  quartier,  he  said,  and  there  was 
quite  a  "  rassemblement "  outside.  So  they  made  him 
tipsy,  and  also  another  policeman,  who  came  to  look 
after  his  comrade,  and  yet  another;  and  these  guardi- 
ans of  the  peace  of  Paris  were  trussed  and  made  to 
play  at  cock-fighting,  and  were  still  funnier  than  the 
two  soldiers,  and  laughed  louder  and  made  more  noise 
than  any  one  else,  so  that  Madame  Yinard  had  to  re- 
monstrate with  them;  till  they  got  too  tipsy  to  speak, 
and  fell  fast  asleep,  and  were  laid  next  to  each  other 
behind  the  stove. 


177 

de  siecle  reader,  disgusted  at  the  thought  of 
such  an  orgy  as  I  have  been  trying  to  describe,  must 
remember  that  it  happened  in  the  fifties,  when  men 
calling  themselves  gentlemen,  and  being  called  so, 
still  wrenched  off  door-knockers  and  came  back  drunk 
from  the  Derby,  and  even  drank  too  much  after 
dinner  before  joining  the  ladies,  as  is  all  duly  chroni- 
cled and  set  down  in  John  Leech's  immortal  pictures 
of  life  and  character  out  of  Punch. 

Then  M.  and  Mme.  Yinard  and  Trilby  and  An- 
gele  Boisse  bade  the  company  good-night,  Trilby  be- 
ing the  last  of  them  to  leave. 

Little  Billee  took  her  to  the  top  of  the  staircase, 
and  there  he  said  to  her : 

"  Trilby,  I  have  asked  you  nineteen  times,  and  you 
have  refused.  Trilby,  once  more,  on  Christmas  night, 
for  the  twentieth  time — will  you  marry  me  ?  If  not, 
I  leave  Paris  to-morrow  morning,  and  never  come 
back.  I  swear  it  on  my  word  of  honor !" 

Trilby  turned  very  pale,  and  leaned  her  back  against 
the  wall,  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

Little  Billee  pulled  them  away. 

"  Answer  me,  Trilby  !" 

"  God  forgive  me,  yes  f"  said  Trilby,  and  she  ran 
down-stairs,  weeping. 

It  was  now  very  late. 

It  soon  became  evident  that  Little  Billee  was  in 
extraordinary  high  spirits — in  an  abnormal  state  of 
excitement. 

He  challenged  Svengali  to  spar,  and  made  his  nose 


178 

bleed,  and  frightened  him  out  of  his  sardonic  wits. 
Ho  performed  wonderful  and  quite  unsuspected  feats 
of  strength.  He  swore  eternal  friendship  to  Dodor 
ami  Zouzou,  and  filled  their  glasses  again  and  again, 
and  also  (in  his  innocence)  his  own,  and  trinqued  with 
them  many  times  running.  They  were  the  last  to 
leave  (except  the  three  helpless  policemen);  and  at 
about  five  or  six  in  the  morning,  to  his  surprise,  he 
found  himself  walking  between  Dodor  and  Zouzou  by 
a  late  windy  moonlight  in  the  Rue  Vieille  des  Mau- 
vaia  Ladres,  now  on  one  side  of  the  frozen  gutter,  now 
on  the  other,  now  in  the  middle  of  it,  stopping  them 
now  and  then  to  tell  them  how  jolly  they  were  and 
how  dearly  he  loved  them. 

Presently  his  hat  flew  away,  and  went  rolling  and 
skipping  and  bounding  up  the  narrow  street,  and  they 
discovered  that  as  soon  as  they  let  each  other  go  to 
run  after  it,  they  all  three  sat  down. 

So  Dodor  and  Little  Billee  remained  sitting,  with 
their  arms  round  each  other's  necks  and  their  feet  in 
the  gutter,  while  Zouzou  went  after  the  hat  on  all 
fours,  and  caught  it,  and  brought  it  back  in  his  mouth 
like  a  tipsy  retriever.  Little  Billee  wept  for  sheer 
love  and  gratitude,  and  called  him  a  caryAotfide  (in 
English),  and  laughed  loudly  at  his  own  wit,  which 
was  quite  thrown  away  on  Zouzou !  "  No  man  ever 
had  such  dear,  dear  frenge!  no  man  ever  was 
s'happy !" 

After  sitting  for  a  while  in  love  and  amity,  they 
managed  to  get  up  on  their  feet  again,  each  helping 
the  other;  and  in  some  never-to-be-remembered  way 
they  reached  the  Hotel  Corneille. 


"'ANSWEB  ME,  TRILBY  I' 


180 


There  they  sat  little  Billee  on  the  door-stop  and 
rang  the  bell,  and  seeing  some  one  coming  up  the 
Place  de  1'Odeon,  and  fearing  he  might  be  a  sergent 
de  ville,  they  bid  Little  Billee  a  most  affectionate  but 
hasty  farewell,  kissing  him  on  both  cheeks  in  French 
fashion,  and  contriving  to  get  themselves  round  the 
corner  and  out  of  sight. 

Little  Billee  tried  to  sing  Zouzou's  drinking-song  : 


"Quo!  de  plus  doux 
Que  les  glougloux  — 
Les  glougloux  du  vin  i  quat'  sous  .  .  ." 

The  stranger  came  up.  Fortunately,  it  was  no  ser- 
gent de  ville,  but  Ribot,  just  back  from  a  Christmas- 
tree  and  a  little  family  dance  at  his  aunt's,  Madame 

Kolb  (the  Alsacian  bank- 
er's wife,  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Chaussee  d'Antin). 


A  CARY///mi)E 


181 

Next  morning  poor  Little  Billee  was  dreadfully  ill. 

He  had  passed  a  terrible  night.  His  bed  had 
heaved  like  the  ocean,  with  oceanic  results.  He  had 
forgotten  to  put  out  his  candle,  but  fortunately  Blbot 
had  blown  it  out  for  him,  after  putting  him  to  bed 
and  tucking  him  up  like  a  real  good  Samaritan. 

And  next  morning,  when  Madame  Paul  brought 
him  a  cup  of  tisane  de  chiendent  (which  does  not  hap- 
pen to  mean  a  hair  of  the  dog  that  bit  him),  she  was 
kind,  but  very  severe  on  the  dangers  and  disgrace  of 
intoxication,  and  talked  to  him  like  a  mother. 

"  If  it  had  not  been  for  kind  Monsieur  Ribot "  (she 
told  him),  "  the  door-step  would  have  been  your  por- 
tion ;  and  who  could  say  you  didn't  deserve  it  ?  And 
then  think  of  the  dangers  of  fire  from  a  tipsy  man  all 
alone  in  a  small  bedroom  with  chintz  curtains  and  a 
lighted  candle !" 

"Blbot  was  kind  enough  to  blow  out  my  candle," 
said  Little  Billee,  humbly. 

"  Ah,  Dame  !"  said  Madame  Paul,  with  much  mean- 
ing— "  au  moins  il  a  bon  cceur,  Monsieur  Ribot !" 

And  the  cruelest  sting  of  all  was  when  the  good- 
natured  and  incorrigibly  festive  Ribot  came  and  sat 
by  his  bedside,  and  was  kind  and  tenderly  sympa- 
thetic, and  got  him  a  pick-me-up  from  the  chemist's 
(unbeknown  to  Madame  Paul). 

"Credieu!  vous  vous  etes  cranement  bien  amuse", 
hier  soir !  quelle  bosse,  hein  !  je  parie  que  c'etait  plus 
drole  que  chez  ma  tante  Kolb !" 

All  of  which,  of  course,  it  is  unnecessary  to  trans- 
late ;  except,  perhaps,  the  word  "  bosse,"  which  stands 
for  "noce,"  which  stands  for  a  "jolly  good  spree." 


182 

In  all  his  innocent  little  life  Little  Billeo  had  never 
dreamed  of  such  humiliation  as  this — such  ignominious 
depths  of  shame  and  misery  and  remorse!  lie  did 
not  care  to  live.  He  had  but  one  longing  :  that  Tril- 
by, dear  Trilby,  kind  Trilby,  would  come  and  pillow 
his  head  on  her  beautiful  white  English  bosom,  and 
lay  her  soft,  cool,  tender  hand  on  his  aching  brow,  and 
there  let  him  go  to  sleep,  and  sleeping,  die  1 

He  slept  and  slept,  with  no  better  rest  for  his 
aching  brow  than  the  pillow  of  his  bed  in  the  Hotel 
Corneille,  and  failed  to  die  this  time.  And  when,  after 
some  forty-eight  hours  or  so,  he  had  quite  slept  off  the 
fumes  of  that  Tn":norable  Christmas  debauch,  he  found 
that  a  sad  thing  had  happened  to  him,  and  a  strange ! 

It  was  as  though  a  tarnishing  breath  had  swept 
over  the  reminiscent  mirror  of  his  mind  and  left  a  lit- 
tle film  behind  it,  so  that  no  past  thing  he  wished  to 
see  therein  was  reflected  with  quite  the  old  pristine 
clearness.  As  though  the  keen,  quick,  razorlike  edge 
of  his  power  to  reach  and  re-evoke  the  by-gone  charm 
and  glamour  and  essence  of  things  had  been  blunted 
and  coarsened.  As  though  the  bloom  of  that  special 
joy,  the  gift  he  unconsciously  had  of  recalling  past 
emotions  and  sensations  and  situations,  and  making 
them  actual  once  more  by  a  mere  effort  of  the  will, 
had  been  brushed  away. 

And  he  never  recovered  the  full  use  of  that  most 
precious  faculty,  the  boon  of  youth  and  happy  child- 
hood, and  which  he  had  once  possessed,  without  know- 
ing it,  in  such  singular  and  exceptional  completeness. 
He  was  to  lose  other  precious  faculties  of  his  over-rich 
and  complex  nature  —  to  be  pruned  and  clipped  and 


183 


thinned  —  that  his  one  supreme  faculty  of  painting 
might  have  elbow-room  to  reach  its  fullest,  or  else  you 
would  never  have  seen  the  wood  for  the  trees  (or  vice 
versa — which  is  it  ?). 


"CLES    GLOUGLOUX   DU  TIN    1    QUAT*  SOUS.    .   .   ,"* 

On  New-year's  Day  Taffy  and  the  Laird  were  at 
their  work  in  the  studio,  when  there  was  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  Monsieur  Yinard,  cap  in  hand,  respect- 
fully introduced  a  pair  of  visitors,  an  English  lady 
and  gentleman. 


184 

The  gentleman  was  a  clergyman,  small,  thin,  round 
shouldered,  with  a  long  neck ;  weak-eyed  and  dryly 
polite.  The  lady  was  middle-aged,  though  still  young 
looking;  very  pretty,  with  gray  hair;  very  well 
dressed ;  very  small,  full  of  nervous  energy,  with 
tiny  hands  and  feet.  It  was  Little  Billee's  mother; 
and  the  clergyman,  the  Rev.  Thomas  Bagot,  was  her 
brother-in-law. 

Their  faces  were  full  of  trouble  —  so  much  so  that 
the  two  painters  did  not  even  apologize  for  the  care- 
lessness of  their  attire,  or  for  the  odor  of  tobacco  that 
filled  the  room.  Little  Billee's  mother  recognized  the 
two  painters  at  a  glance,  from  the  sketches  and  descrip- 
tions of  which  her  son's  letters  were  always  full. 

They  all  sat  down. 

After  a  moment's  embarrassed  silence,  Mrs.  Bagot 
exclaimed,  addressing  Taffy  :  "  Mr.  "Wynne,  we  are  in 
terrible  distress  of  mind.  I  don't  know  if  my  son  has 
told  you,  but  on  Christmas  Day  he  engaged  himself  to 
be  married !" 

"To  —  be — married!"  exclaimed  Taffy  and  the 
Laird,  for  whom  this  was  news  indeed. 

"Yes  —  to  be  married  to  a  Miss  Trilby  OTerrall, 
who,  from  what  he  implies,  is  in  quite  a  different  po- 
sition in  life  to  himself.  Do  you  know  the  lady,  Mr. 
Wynne  ?" 

"Oh  yes!  I  know  her  very  well  indeed;  we  all 
know  her." 

"  Is  she  English  ?" 

"  She's  an  English  subject,  I  believe." 

"Is  she  a  Protestant  or  a  Roman  Catholic?"  in- 
quired the  clergyman. 


185 

"  A — a — upon  my  word,  I  realty  don't  know !" 

"  You  know  her  very  well  indeed,  and  you  don't — 
know — that,  Mr.  Wynne !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Bagot. 

"Is  she  a  lady,  Mr.  "Wynne?"  asked  Mrs.  Bagot, 
somewhat  impatiently,  as  if  that  were  a  much  more 
important  matter. 

By  this  time  the  Laird  had  managed  to  basely  de- 
sert his  friend ;  had  got  himself  into  his  bedroom, 
and  from  thence,  by  another  door,  into  the  street  and 
away. 

"  A  lady  ?"  said  Taffy ;  "a  —  it  so  much  depends 
upon  what  that  word  exactly  means,  you  know ;  things 
are  so — a — so  different  here.  Her  father  was  a  gentle- 
man, I  believe — a  fellow  of  Trinity,  Cambridge — and 
a  clergyman,  if  that  means  anything ! ...  he  was  unfort- 
unate and  all  that — a — intemperate,  I  fear,  and  not 
successful  in  life.  He  has  been  dead  six  or  seven 
years." 

"And  her  mother?" 

"  I  really  know  very  little  about  her  mother,  except 
that  she  was  very  handsome,  I  believe,  and  of  inferior 
social  rank  to  her  husband.  She's  also  dead;  she  died 
soon  after  him." 

"  What  is  the  young  lady,  then  ?  An  English  gov- 
erness, or  something  of  that  sort  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  no  —  a  — nothing  of  that  sort,"  said  Taffy 
(and  inwardly,  "  You  coward  —  you  cad  of  a  Scotch 
thief  of  a  sneak  of  a  Laird — to  leave  all  this  to  me  !"). 

"  What  ?  Has  she  independent  means  of  her  own, 
then?" 

"  A — not  that  I  know  of ;  I  should  even  say,  decid- 
ed Iv  not !" 


186 

"  What  is  she,  then  ?  She's  at  least  respectable,  I 
hopel" 

"At  present  she's  a — a  blanchisseuse  de  fin — that  ia 
considered  respectable  here." 

"  Why,  that's  a  washer-woman,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Well — rather  better  than  that,  perhaps  —  de  fin, 
you  know  ! — things  are  so  different  in  Paris !  I  don't 
think  you'd  say  she  was  very  much  like  a  washer- 
woman— to  look  at !" 

"Is  she  so  good-looking,  then?" 

:'  Oh  yes ;  extremely  so.  You  may  well  say  that- 
very  beautiful,  indeed  —  about  that,  at  least,  there  is 
no  doubt  whatever !" 

"  And  of  unblemished  character?" 

Taffy, red  and  perspiring  as  if  he  were  going  through 
his  Indian-club  exercise,  was  silent  —  and  his  face  ex- 
pressed a  miserable  perplexity.  But  nothing  could 
equal  the  anxious  misery  of  those  two  maternal  eyes, 
so  wistfully  fixed  on  his. 

After  some  seconds  of  a  most  painful  stillness,  the 
lady  said,  "Can't  you  —  oh,  can't  you  give  me  an  an- 
swer, Mr.  Wynne?" 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bagot,  you  have  placed  me  in  a  ter- 
rible position !  I — I  love  your  son  just  as  if  he  were 
my  own  brother!  This  engagement  is  a  complete 
surprise  to  me — a  most  painful  surprise  !  I'd  thought 
of  many  possible  things,  but  never  of  that!  I  can- 
not—  I  really  must  not  conceal  from  you  that  it 
would  be  an  unfortunate  marriage  for  your  son — 
from  a  —  a  worldly  point  of  view,  you  know— 
although  both  I  and  McAllister  have  a  very  deep  and 
warm  regard  for  poor  Trilby  O'Ferrall  —  indeed,  a 


187 


great  admiration  and  affection  and  respect !     She  was 
once  a  model." 

"  A  model,  Mr.  Wynne  ?    What  sort  of  a  model- 
there  are  models  and  models,  of  course." 


"'IS    SHE    A    LADY,    MR.    WYNNE?'" 

"  Well,  a  model  of  every  sort,  in  every  possible  sense 
of  the  word— head,  hands,  feet,  everything!" 

"  A  model  for  the  figure  ?" 

"  Well— yes !" 

"Oh,  my  God!  my  God!  my  God!"  cried  Mrs. 
Bagot— and  she  got  up  and  walked  up  and  down  the 


188 

studio  in  a  most  terrible  state  of  agitation,  her  brother 
in-law  following  her  and  begging  her  to  control  her- 
self. Her  exclamations  seemed  to  shock  him,  and  she 
didn't  seem  to  care. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wynne !  Mr.  "Wynne !  If  you  only  knew 
what  my  son  is  to  me — to  all  of  us — always  has  been  ! 
He  has  been  with  us  all  his  life,  till  he  came  to  this 
wicked,  accursed  city  !  My  poor  husband  would  never 
hear  of  his  going  to  any  school,  for  fear  of  all  the 
harm  he  might  learn  there.  My  son  was  as  inno- 
cent and  pure-minded  as  any  girl,  Mr.  "Wynne — I  could 
have  trusted  him  anywhere  —  and  that's  why  I  gave 
way  and  allowed  him  to  come  here,  of  all  places  in  the 
world — all  alone.  Oh  !  I  should  have  come  with  him  ! 
Fool — fool — fool  that  I  was !  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  Mr.  "Wynne,  he  won't  see  either  his  mother  or 
his  uncle!  I  found  a  letter  from  him  at  the  hotel, 
saying  he'd  left  Paris — and  I  don't  even  know  where 
he's  gone !  .  .  .  Can't  you,  can't  Mr.  McAllister,  do 
anything  to  avert  this  miserable  disaster  ?  You  don't 
know  how  he  loves  you  both  —  you  should  see  his  let- 
ters to  me  and  to  his  sister !  they  are  always  full  of 
you!" 

"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Bagot — you  can  count  on  McAllister 
and  me  for  doing  everything  in  our  power !  But  it  is 
of  no  use  our  trying  to  influence  your  son  —  I  feel 
quite  sure  of  that!  It  is  to  her  we  must  make  our 
appeal." 

"Oh,  Mr.  "Wynne!  to  a  washer -woman  —  a  figure 
model — and  Heaven  knows  what  besides!  and  with 
such  a  chance  as  this !" 

"  Mrs.  Bagot,  you  don't  know  her  ?     She  may  have 


189 

been  all  that.  But  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  you — 
and  seems  to  me,  for  that  matter — she's  a — she's — 
upon  my  word  of  honor,  I  really  think  she's  about  the 
best  woman  I  ever  met  —  the  most  unselfish  —  the 
most — 

"Ah!  She's  a  'beautiful  woman  —  I  can  well  see 
that!" 

"  She  has  a  beautiful  nature,  Mrs.  Bagot — you  may 
believe  me  or  not,  as  you  like — and  it  is  to  that  I  shall 
make  my  appeal,  as  your  son's  friend,  who  has  his  in- 
terests at  heart.  And  let  me  tell  you  that  deeply  as  I 
grieve  for  you  in  your  present  distress,  my  grief  and 
concern  for  her  are  far  greater !" 

"  What !  grief  for  her  if  she  marries  my  son !" 

"  !Nb,  indeed — but  if  she  refuses  to  marry  him.  She 
may  not  do  so,  of  course — but  my  instinct  tells  me  she 
will!" 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Wynne,  is  that  likely  ?" 

"  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  it  so  —  with  such  an 
utter  trust  in  her  unselfish  goodness  of  heart  and  her 
passionate  affection  for  your  son  as — 

"  How  do  you  know  she  has  all  this  passionate  af- 
fection for  him  ?" 

"  Oh,  McAllister  and  I  have  long  guessed  it — though 
we  never  thought  this  particular  thing  would  come  of 
it.  I  think,  perhaps,  that  first  of  all  you  ought  to  see 
her  yourself — you  would  get  quite  a  new  idea  of  what 
she  really  is — you  would  be  surprised,  I  assure  you." 

Mrs.  Bagot  shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently, 
and  there  was  silence  for  a  minute  or  two. 

And  then,  just  as  in  a  play,  Trilby's  "  Milk  below !" 
was  sounded  at  the  door,  and  Trilby  came  into  the 


190 

little  antechamber,  and  seeing  strangers,  was  about 
to  turn  back.  She  was  dressed  as  a  grisette,  in  her 
Sunday  gown  and  pretty  white  cap  (for  it  was  New- 
year's  Day),  and  looking  her  very  best. 

Taffy  called  out,  "  Come  in,  Trilby  I" 

And  Trilby  came  into  the  studio. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  Mrs.  Bagot's  face  she  stopped 
short — erect,  her  shoulders  a  little  high,  her  mouth  a 
little  open,  her  eyes  wide  with  fright — and  pale  to  the 
lips  —  a  pathetic,  yet  commanding,  magnificent,  and 
most  distinguished  apparition,  in  spite  of  her  humble 
attire. 

The  little  lady  got  up  and  walked  straight  to  her, 
and  looked  up  into  her  face,  that  seemed  to  tower  so. 
Trilby  breathed  hard. 

At  length  Mrs.  Bagot  said,  in  her  high  accents,  "  You 
are  Miss  Trilby  OTerrall  ?" 

"  Oh  yes — yes — I  am  Trilby  O'Ferrall,  and  you  are 
Mrs.  Bagot ;  I  can  see  that !" 

A  new  tone  had  come  into  her  large,  deep,  soft 
voice,  so  tragic,  so  touching,  so  strangely  in  accord 
with  the  whole  aspect  just  then — so  strangely  in  ac- 
cord with  the  whole  situation  —  that  Taffy  felt  his 
cheeks  and  lips  turn  cold,  and  his  big  spine  thrill  and 
tickle  all  down  his  back. 

"  Oh  yes ;  you  are  very,  very  beautiful — there's  no 
doubt  about  that !  You  wish  to  marry  my  son  ?" 

"  I've  refused  to  marry  him  nineteen  times  for  his 
own  sake ;  he  will  tell  you  so  himself.  I  am  not  the 
right  person  for  him  to  marry.  I  know  that.  On 
Christmas  night  he  asked  me  for  the  twentieth  time ; 
he  swore  he  would  leave  Paris  next  dav  forever  if  I 


191 


refused  him.  I  hadn't  the  courage.  I  was  weak,  you 
see !  It  was  a  dreadful  mistake." 

"  Are  you  so  fond  of  him  ?" 

"  Fond  of  him  ?     Aren't  you  ?" 

"  I'm  his  mother,  my  good  girl!" 

To  this  Trilby  seemed  to  have  nothing  to  say. 

"  You  have  just  said  yourself  you  are  not  a  fit  wife 
for  him.  If  you  are  so  fond  of  him,  will  you  ruin  him 
by  marrying  him ;  drag  him  down  ;  prevent  him  from 
getting  on  in  life ;  separate  him  from  his  sister,  his 
family,  his  friends?" 


"  '  FOND  OF   HIM  ?      ABKN't 


193 

Trilby  turned  her  miserable  eyes  to  Taffy's  miser- 
able face,  and  said,  "  Will  it  really  be  all  that,  Taffy?" 

"  Oh,  Trilby,  things  have  got  all  wrong,  and  can't  be 
righted !  Fin  afraid  it  might  be  so.  Dear  Trilby — I 
can't  tell  you  what  I  feel — but  I  can't  tell  you  lies, 
you  know !" 

"  Oh  no— Taffy— you  don't  tell  lies !" 

Then  Trilby  began  to  tremble  very  much,  and  Taffy 
tried  to  make  her  sit  down,  but  she  wouldn't.  Mrs. 
Bagot  looked  up  into  her  face,  herself  breathless  with 
keen  suspense  and  cruel  anxiety — almost  imploring. 

Trilby  looked  down  at  Mrs.  Bagot  very  kindly,  put 
out  her  shaking  hand,  and  said ;  "  Good-bye,  Mrs.  Bagot. 
I  will  not  marry  your  son.  I  promise  you.  I  will 
never  see  him  again." 

Mrs.  Bagot  caught  and  clasped  her  hand  and  tried 
to  kiss  it,  and  said :  "  Don't  go  yet,  my  dear  good 
girl.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  want  to  tell  you  how 
deeply  I—" 

"Good-bye,  Mrs.  Bagot,"  said  Trilby,  once  more; 
and,  disengaging  her  hand,  she  walked  swiftly  out  of 
the  room. 

Mrs.  Bagot  seemed  stupefied,  and  only  half  content 
with  her  quick  triumph. 

"  She  will  not  marry  your  son,  Mrs.  Bagot.  I  only 
wish  to  God  she'd  marry  me  /" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wynne!"  said  Mrs.  Bagot,  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Ah !"  exclaimed  the  clergyman,  with  a  feebly 
satirical  smile  and  a  little  cough  and  sniff  that  were 
not  sympathetic,  "  now  if  that  could  be  arranged — and 
I've  no  doubt  there  wouldn't  be  much  opposition  on 


193 

the  part  of  the  lady  "  (here  he  made  a  little  compli- 
mentary bow),  "  it  would  be  a  very  desirable  thing 
all  round !" 

"  It's  tremendously  good  of  you,  I'm  sure — to  inter- 
est yourself  in  my  humble  affairs,"  said  Taffy.  "  Look 
here,  sir— I'm  not  a  great  genius  like  your  nephew — 
and  it  doesn't  much  matter  to  any  one  but  myself 
what  I  make  of  my  life — but  I  can  assure  you  that  if 
Trilby's  heart  were  set  on  me  as  it  is  on  him,  I  would 
gladly  cast  in  my  lot  with  hers  for  life.  She's  one 
in  a  thousand.  She's  the  one  sinner  that  repenteth, 
you  know !" 

"  Ah,  yes — to  be  sure ! — to  be  sure  !  I  know  all 
about  that ;  still,  facts  are  facts,  and  the  world  is  the 
world,  and  we've  got  to  live  in  it,"  said  Mr.  Bagot, 
whose  satirical  smile  had  died  away  under  the  gleam 
of  Taffy's  choleric  blue  eye. 

Then  said  the  good  Taffy,  frowning  down  on  the 
parson  (who  looked  mean  and  foolish,  as  people  can 
sometimes  do  even  with  right  on  their  side) :  "  And 
now,  Mr.  Bagot — I  can't  tell  you  how  very  keenly  I 
have  suffered  during  this — a — this  most  painful  inter- 
view— on  account  of  my  very  deep  regard  for  Trilby 
O'Ferrall.  I  congratulate  you  and  your  sister-in-law 
on  its  complete  success.  I  also  feel  very  deeply  for 
your  nephew.  I'm  not  sure  that  he  has  not  lost  more 
than  he  will  gain  by —  a — by  the — a — the  success  of 
this — a — this  interview,  in  short!" 

Taffy's  eloquence  was  exhausted,  and  his  quick  tem- 
per was  getting  the  better  of  him. 

Then  Mrs.  Bagot,  drying  her  eyes,  came  and  took 
his  hand  in  a  very  charming  and  simple  manner,  and 


194 

said :  "  Mr.  Wynne,  I  think  I  know  what  you  are  feel- 
ing just  now.  You  must  try  and  make  some  allow- 
ance for  us.  You  will,  I  am  sure,  when  we  are  gone, 
and  you  have  had  time  to  think  a  little.  As  for  that 
noble  and  beautiful  girl,  I  only  wish  that  she  were 
such  that  my  son  could'  marry  her — in  her  past  life,  I 
mean.  It  is  not  her  humble  rank  that  would  frighten 
me ;  pray  believe  that  I  am  quite  sincere  in  this — and 
don't  think  too  hardly  of  your  friend's  mother.  Think 
of  all  I  shall  have  to  go  through  with  my  poor  son — 
who  is  deeply  in  love — and  no  wonder !  and  who  has 
won  the  love  of  such  a  woman  as  that !  and  who  can- 
not see  at  present  how  fatal  to  him  such  a  marriage 
would  be.  I  can  see  all  the  charm  and  believe  in  all 
the  goodness,  in  spite  of  all.  And,  oh,  how  beautiful 
she  is,  and  what  a  voice !  All  that  counts  for  so  much, 
doesn't  it  ?  I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  grieve  for  her.  I 
can  make  no  amends — who  could,  for  such  a  thing? 
There  are  no  amends,  and  I  shall  not  even  try.  I  will 
only  write  and  tell  her  all  I  think  and  feel.  You  wiH 
forgive  us,  won't  you  ?" 

And  in  the  quick,  impulsive  warmth  and  grace  and 
sincerity  of  her  manner  as  she  said  all  this,  Mrs.  Bagot 
was  so  absurdly  like  Little  Billee  that  it  touched  big 
Taffy's  heart,  and  he  would  have  forgiven  anything, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  forgive. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bagot,  there's  no  question  of  forgiveness. 
Good  heavens !  it  is  all  so  unfortunate,  you  know ! 
Nobody's  to  blame  that  I  can  see.  Good-bye,  Mrs. 
Bagot;  good  -  bye,  sir,"  and  so  saying,  he  saw  them 
down  to  their  "  remise,"  in  which  sat  a  singularly  pret- 
ty young  lady  of  seventeen  or  so,  pale  and  anxious, 


195 


And  so  like  Little  Billee  that  it  was  quite  funny,  and 
touched  big  Taffy's  heart  again. 

When  Trilby  went  out  into  the  court-yard  in  the 
Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  she  saw  Miss  Bagot  look- 
ing out  of  the  carriage  window,  and  in  the  young 
lady's  face,  as  she  caught  her  eye,  an  expression  of 
sweet  surprise  and  sympathetic  admiration,  with  lifted 


"SO   LIKE   LITTLE   BILLEE " 

eyebrows  and  parted  lips — just  such  a  look  as  she  had 
often  got  from  Little  Billee !  She  knew  her  for  his 
sister  at  once.  It  was  a  sharp  pang. 

She  turned  away,  saying  to  herself  :  "  Oh  no ;  I  will 
not  separate  him  from  his  sister,  his  family,  his  friends ! 
That  would  never  do !  ThaVs  settled,  anyhow !" 

Feeling  a  little  dazed,  and  wishing  to  think,  she 
turned  up  the  Rue  Yieille  des  Mauvais  Ladres,  which 
was  always  deserted  at  this  hour.  It  was  empty  but 


196 

for  a  solitary  figure  sitting  on  a  post,  with  its  legs 
dangling,  its  hands  in  its  trousers-pockets,  an  inverted 
pipe  in  its  mouth,  a  tattered  straw  hat  on  the  back  of 
its  head,  and  a  long  gray  coat  down  to  its  heels.  It 
was  the  Laird. 

As  soon  as  he  saw  her  he  jumped  off  his  post  and 
came  to  her,  saying :  "  Oh,  Trilby — what's  it  all  about  ( 
I  couldn't  stand  it !  I  ran  away!  Little  Billee's  moth- 
er's there !" 

"  Yes,  Sandy  dear,  I've  just  seen  her." 

"Well,  what's  up?" 

"  I've  promised  her  never  to  see  Little  Billee  any 
more.  I  was  foolish  enough  to  promise  to  marry  him. 
I  refused  many  times  these  last  three  months,  and  then 
he  said  he'd  leave  Paris  and  never  come  back,  and  so, 
like  a  fool,  I  gave  way.  I've  offered  to  live  with  him 
and  take  care  of  him  and  be  his  servant — to  be  every- 
thing he  wished  but  his  wife!  But  he  wouldn't  hear 
of  it.  Dear,  dear  Little  Billee  !  he's  an  angel — and  I'll 
take  precious  good  care  no  harm  shall  ever  come  to 
him  through  me!  I  shall  leave  this  hateful  place  and 
go  and  live  in  the  country :  I  suppose  I  must  manage 
to  get  through  life  somehow.  I  know  of  some  poor 
people  who  were  once  very  fond  of  me,  and  I  could 
live  with  them  and  help  them  and  keep  myself.  The 
difficulty  is  about  Jeannot.  I  thought  it  all  out  before 
it  came  to  this.  I  was  well  prepared,  you  see." 

She  smiled  in  a  forlorn  sort  of  way,  with  her  upper 
lip  drawn  tight  against  her  teeth,  as  if  some  one  were 
pulling  her  back  by  the  lobes  of  her  ears. 

"Oh!  but  Trilby — what  shall  we  do  without  you? 
Taffy  and  I,  you  know  !  You've  become  one  of  us  !'' 


197 

"  Now  how  good  and  kind  of  you  to  say  that !"  ex- 
claimed  poor  Trilby,  her  eyes  filling.  "  Why,  that's 
just  all  I  lived  for,  till  all  this  happened.  But  it  can't 
be  any  more  now,  can  it  ?  Everything  is  changed  for 
me — the  very  sky  seems  different.  Ah !  Durien's  little 
song — lPlaisir  cT  amour — chagrin  d?  amour  .n  it's  all 
quite  true,  isn't  it?  I  shall  start  immediately,  and 
take  Jeannot  with  me,  I  think." 

"  But  where  do  you  think  of  going  ?" 

"  Ah  !  I  mayn't  tell  you  that,  Sandy  dear — not  foi 
a  long  time !  Think  of  all  the  trouble  there'd  be- 
Well,  there's  no  time  to  be  lost.  I  must  take  the  bull 
by  the  horns." 

She  tried  to  laugh,  and  took  him  by  his  big  side- 
whiskers  and  kissed  him  on  the  eyes  and  mouth,  and 
her  tears  fell  on  his  face. 

Then,  feeling  unable  to  speak,  she  nodded  farewell, 
and  walked  quickly  up  the  narrow  winding  street. 
When  she  came  to  the  first  bend  she  turned  round  and 
waved  her  hand,  and  kissed  it  two  or  three  times,  and 
then  disappeared. 

The  Laird  stared  for  several  minutes  up  the  empty 
thoroughfare — wretched,  full  of  sorrow  and  compas- 
sion. Then  he  filled  himself  another  pipe  and  lit  it, 
and  hitched  himself  on  to  another  post,  and  sat  there 
dangling  his  legs  and  kicking  his  heels,  and  waited  for 
the  Bagots'  cab  to  depart,  that  he  might  go  up  and 
face  the  righteous  wrath  of  Taffy  like  a  man,  and  bear 
up  against  his  bitter  reproaches  for  cowardice  and  de- 
sertion before  the  foe. 

Next  morning  Taffy  received  two  letters:  one,  a 
14 


198 

very  long  one,  was  from  Mrs.  Bagot.  He  read  it  twice 
over,  and  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that  it  was  a 
very  good  letter — the  letter  of  a  clever,  warm-hearted 
woman,  but  a  woman  also  whose  son  was  to  her  as 
the  very  apple  of  her  eye.  One  felt  she  was  ready  to 
flay  her  dearest  friend  alive  in  order  to  make  Little 
Billee  a  pair  of  gloves  out  of  the  skin,  if  he  wanted  a 
pair;  but  one  also  felt  she  would  be  genuinely  sorry 
for  the  friend.  Taffy's  own  mother  had  been  a  little 
like  that,  and  he  missed  her  every  day  of  his  life. 

Full  justice  was  done  by  Mrs.  Bagot  to  all  Trilby's 
qualities  of  head  and  heart  and  person ;  but  at  the 
same  time  she  pointed  out,  with  all  the  cunning  and 
ingeniously  casuistic  logic  of  her  sex,  when  it  takes  to 
special  pleading  (even  when  it  has  right  on  its  side), 
what  the  consequences  of  such  a  marriage  must  in- 
evitably be  in  a  few  years — even  sooner !  The  quick 
disenchantment,  the  life-long  regret,  on  both  sides ! 

He  could  not  have  found  a  word  to  controvert  her 
arguments,  save  perhaps  in  his  own  private  belief  that 
Trilby  and  Little  Billee  were  both  exceptional  people ; 
and  how  could  he  hope  to  know  Little  Billee's  nature 
better  than  the  boy's  own  mother ! 

And  if  he  had  been  the  boy's  elder  brother  in  blood, 
as  he  already  was  in  art  and  affection,  would  he,  should 
he,  could  he  have  given  his  fraternal  sanction  to  such 
a  match  ? 

Both  as  his  friend  and  his  brother  he  felt  it  was  out 
of  the  question. 

The  other  letter  was  from  Trilby,  in  her  bold,  care- 
less handwriting,  that  sprawled  all  over  the  page,  and 
her  occasionally  imperfect  spelling.  It  ran  thus : 


"  '  I  MUST  TAKE  THE  BULL  BY  THE  HORNS ' 


200 

"  MY  DEAR,  DEAR  TAFFY, — This  is  to  say  good-bye. 
I'm  going  away,  to  put  an  end  to  all  this  misery,  for 
which  nobody's  to  blame  but  myself. 

"  The  very  moment  after  I'd  said  yes  to  Little  Billee 
I  knew  perfectly  well  what  a  stupid  fool  I  was,  and 
I've  l>een  ashamed  of  myself  ever  since.  I  had  a 
miserable  week,  I  can  tell  you.  I  knew  how  it  would 
all  turn  out. 

u  I  am  dreadfully  unhappy,  but  not  half  so  unhappy 
as  if  I  married  him  and  he  were  ever  to  regret  it  and 
be  ashamed  of  me;  and  of  course  he  would,  really, 
even  if  he  didn't  show  it — good  and  kind  as  he  is — an 
angel ! 

"  Besides — of  course  I  could  never  be  a  lady — how 
could  I  ? — though  I  ought  to  have  been  one,  I  suppose. 
But  everything  seems  to  have  gone  wrong  with  me, 
though  I  never  found  it  out  before — and  it  can't  be 
righted! 

"  Poor  papa ! 

"  I  am  going  away  with  Jeannot.  I've  been  neglect- 
ing him  shamefully.  I  mean  to  make  up  for  it  all  now. 

"  You  mustn't  try  and  find  out  where  I  am  going ; 
I  know  you  won't  if  I  beg  you,  nor  any  one  else.  It 
would  make  everything  so  much  harder  for  me. 

"  Angele  knows ;  she  has  promised  me  not  to  tell. 
I  should  like  to  have  a  line  from  you  very  much,  If 
you  send  it  to  her  she  will  send  it  on  to  me. 

"  Dear  Taffy,  next  to  Little  Billee,  I  love  you  and 
the  Laird  better  than  any  one  else  in  the  whole  world. 
I've  never  known  real  happiness  till  I  met  you.  You 
have  changed  me  into  another  person — you  and  Sandy 
and  Little  Billee. 


201 

"  Oh,  it  has  been  a  jolly  time,  though  it  didn't  last 
long.  It  will  have  to  do  for  me  for  life.  So  good-bye. 
I  shall  never,  never  forget;  and  remain,  with  dearest 
love, 

"  Your  ever  faithful  and  most  affectionate  friend, 

"  TRILBY  O'FERRALL. 

"P.S. — When  it  has  all  blown  over  and  settled 
again,  if  it  ever  does,  I  shall  come  back  to  Paris,  per- 
haps, and  see  you  again  some  day." 

The  good  Taffy  pondered  deeply  over  this  letter — 
read  it  half  a  dozen  times  at  least ;  and  then  he  kissed 
it,  and  put  it  back  into  its  envelope  and  locked  it  up. 

He  knew  what  very  deep  anguish  underlay  this 
somewhat  trivial  expression  of  her  sorrow. 

He  guessed  how  Trilby,  so  childishly  impulsive  and 
demonstrative  in  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  friend- 
ship, would  be  more  reticent  than  most  women  in  such 
a  case  as  this. 

He  wrote  to  her  warmly,  affectionately,  at  great 
length,  and  sent  the  letter  as  she  had  told  him. 

The  Laird  also  wrote  a  long  letter  full  of  tenderly 
worded  friendship  and  sincere  regard.  Both  expressed 
their  hope  and  belief  that  they  would  soon  see  her 
again,  when  the  first  bitterness  of  her  grief  would  be 
over,  and  that  the  old  pleasant  relations  would  be  re- 
newed. 

And  then,  feeling  wretched,  they  went  and  silently 
lunched  together  at  the  Cafe  de  FOdeon,  where  the 
omelets  were  good  and  the  wine  wasn't  blue. 

Late  that  evening  they  sat  together  in  the  studio, 
reading.  They  found  they  could  not  talk  to  each 


202 

other  very  readily  without  Little  Billee  to  listen- 
three's  company  sometimes  and  two's  none  I 

Suddenly  there  was  a  tremendous  getting  up  the 
dark  stairs  outside  in  a  violent  hurry,  and  Little  Billee 
burst  into  the  room  like  a  small  whirlwind — haggard, 
out  of  breath,  almost  speechless  at  first  with  excite- 
ment. 

" Trilby  ?  where  is  she? .  .  .  what's  become  of  her? 
.  .  .  She's  run  away  ...  oh !  She's  written  me  such  a 
letter !  .  .  .  We  were  to  have  been  married  ...  at  the 
Embassy  .  .  .  my  mother  .  .  .  she's  been  meddling; 
and  that  cursed  old  ass  ...  that  beast  .  .  .  my  uncle ! 
.  .  .  They've  been  here !  I  know  all  about  it.  ... 
"Why  didn't  you  stick  up  for  her  ?  .  .  ." 

"  I  did  ...  as  well  as  I  could.  Sandy  couldn't  stand 
it,  and  cut." 

"  You  stuck  up  for  her  .  .  .  you — why,  you  agreed 
with  my  mother  that  she  oughtn't  to  marry  me — you 
—you  false  friend — you.  .  .  .  "Why,  she's  an  angel- 
far  too  good  for  the  likes  of  me  .  .  .  you  know  she  is. 
As  ...  as  for  her  social  position  and  all  that,  what  de- 
grading rot !  Her  father  was  as  much  a  gentleman  as 
mine  .  .  .  besides  .  .  .  what  the  devil  do  I  care  for 
her  father?  .  .  .  it's  her  I  want — her — her — her,  I  tell 
you  ...  I  can't  live  without  her  ...  I  must  have 
her  bade — I  must  have  her  back  ...  do  you  hear  f 
We  were  to  have  lived  together  at  Barbizon  ...  all 
our  lives — and  I  was  to  have  painted  stunning  pictures 
.  .  .  like  those  other  fellows  there.  Who  cares  for 
their  social  position,  I  should  like  to  know  .  .  .  or  that 
of  their  wives:1  Damn  social  position!  .  .  .  we've 
often  said  so — over  and  over  again.  An  artist's  life 


"  '  TKILBY  !    WHERK    IS    SHE  ?'  " 

should  be  away  from  the  world — above  all  that  mean- 
ness and  paltriness  ...  all  in  his  work.  Social  posi- 
tion, indeed !  Over  and  over  again  we've  said  what 
fetid,  bestial  rot  it  all  was — a  thing  to  make  one  sick 
and  shut  one's  self  away  from  the  world.  .  .  .  Why  say 
one  thing  and  act  another?  .  .  .  Love  comes  before 
all — love  levels  all — love  and  art  .  .  .  and  beauty— 
before  such  beauty  as  Trilby's  rank  doesn't  exist. 
Such  rank  as  mine,  too !  Good  God !  I'll  never  paint 
another  stroke  till  I've  got  her  back  .  .  .  never,  never, 
I  tell  you— I  can't— I  won't !  .  .  ." 

And  so  the  poor  boy  went  on,  tearing  and  raving 
about  in  his  rampage,  knocking  over  chairs  and  easels, 
stammering  and  shrieking,  mad  with  excitement. 


SM 

They  tried  to  reason  with  him,  to  make  him  listen, 
to  point  out  that  it  was  not  her  social  position  alone 
that  unfitted  her  to  be  his  wife  and  the  mother  of  his 
children,  etc. 

It  was  no  good.  He  grew  more  and  more  uncon- 
trollable, became  almost  unintelligible,  he  stammered 
so — a  pitiable  sight  and  pitiable  to  hear. 

"  Oh !  oh !  good  heavens !  are  you  so  precious  im- 
maculate, you  two,  that  you  should  throw  stones  at 
poor  Trilby !  What  a  shame,  what  a  hideous  shame 
it  is  that  there  should  be  one  law  for  the  woman  and 
another  for  the  man !  .  .  .  poor  weak  women — poor, 
soft,  affectionate  things  that  beasts  of  men  are  always 
running  after  and  pestering  and  ruining  and  tramp- 
ling underfoot  .  .  .  Oh!  oh!  it  makes  me  sick  —  it 
makes  me  sick  !"  And  finally  he  gasped  and  screamed 
and  fell  down  in  a  fit  on  the  floor. 

The  doctor  was  sent  for ;  Taffy  went  in  a  cab  to  the 
Hotel  de  Lille  et  d' Albion  to  fetch  his  mother;  and 
poor  Little  Billee,  quite  unconscious,  was  undressed  by 
Sandy  and  Madame  Vinardandput  into  the  Laird's  bed. 

The  doctor  came,  and  not  long  after  Mrs.  Bagot  and 
her  daughter.  It  was  a  serious  case.  Another  doctor 
was  called  in.  Beds  were  got  and  made  up  in  the 
studio  for  the  two  grief-stricken  ladies,  and  thus  closed 
the  eve  of  what  was  to  have  been  poor  Little  Billee's 
wedding-day,  it  seems. 

Little  Billee's  attack  appears  to  have  been  a  kind  of 
epileptic  seizure.  It  ended  in  brain-fever  and  other 
complications  —  a  long  and  tedious  illness.  It  was 
many  weeks  before  he  was  out  of  danger,  and  his  con- 
valescence was  lon£  and  tedious  too. 


205 


His  nature  seemed  changed.  He  lay  languid  and 
listless — never  even  mentioned  Trilby,  except  once  to 
ask  if  she  had  come  back,  and  if  any  one  knew  where 
she  was,  and  if  she  had  been  written  to. 

She  had  not,  it  appears.     Mrs.  Bagot  had  thought 
it  was  better  not,  and  Taffy  and  the  Laird  agreed  with 
her  that  no  good  could 
come  of  writing. 

Mrs.  Bagot  felt  bit- 
terly against  the  wom- 
an who  had  been  the 
cause  of  all  this  trouble, 
and  bitterly  against 
herself  for  her  injus- 
tice. It  was  an  unhap- 
py time  for  everybody. 

There  was  more  un- 
happiness  still  to  come. 

One  day  in  February 
Madame  Angele  Boisse 
called  on  Taffy  and  the 
Laird  in  the  temporary 
studio  where  they 
worked.  She  was  in 
terrible  tribulation. 

Trilby's  little  brother  had  died  of  scarlet  -  fever 
and  was  buried,  and  Trilby  had  left  her  hiding- 
place  the  day  after  the  funeral  and  had  never  come 
back,  and  this  was  a  week  ago.  She  and  Jeannot 
had  been  living  at  a  village  called  Yibraye,  in  la 
Sarthe,  lodging  with  some  poor  people  she  knew— 


LA    SCEUB   DE    LITRE  BILI 


206 

she  washing  and  working  with  her  needle  till  hei 
brother  fell  ill. 

She  had  never  left  his  bedside  for  a  moment,  night 
or  day,  and  when  he  died  her  grief  was  so  terrible 
that  people  thought  she  would  go  out  of  her  mind ; 
and  the  day  after  he  was  buried  she  was  not  to  be 
found  anywhere — she  had  disappeared,  taking  noth- 
ing with  her,  not  even  her  clothes  —  simply  vanished 
and  left  no  sign,  no  message  of  any  kind. 

All  the  ponds  had  been  searched — all  the  wells,  and 
the  small  stream  that  flows  through  Vibraye — and  the 
old  forest. 

Taffy  went  to  Yibraye,  cross-examined  everybody 
he  could,  communicated  with  the  Paris  police,  but 
with  no  result,  and  every  afternoon,  with  a  beating 
heart,  he  went  to  the  Morgue.  .  .  . 

The  news  was  of  course  kept  from  Little  Billee. 
There  was  no  difficulty  about  this.  He  never  asked  a 
question,  hardly  ever  spoke. 

When  he  first  got  up  and  was  carried  into  the  studio 
he  asked  for  his  picture  "  The  Pitcher  Goes  to  the 
Well,"  and  looked  at  it  for  a  while,  and  then  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  laughed — a  miserable  sort  of  laugh, 
painful  to  hear  —  the  laugh  of  a  cold  old  man,  who 
laughs  so  as  not  to  cry !  Then  he  looked  at  his  mother 
and  sister,  and  saw  the  sad  havoc  that  grief  and  anxiety 
had  wrought  in  them. 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  in  a  bad  dream,  that  he  had 
been  mad  for  many  years — a  cause  of  endless  sicken- 
ing terror  and  distress;  and  that  his  poor  weak  wan- 
dering wits  had  come  back  at  last,  bringing  in  their 


207 


train  cruel  remorse,  and  the  remembrance  of  all  the 
patient  love  and  kindness  that  had  been  lavished  on 
him  for  many  years!  His  sweet  sister — his  dear,  long- 
suffering  mother !  what  had  really  happened  to  make 
them  look  like  this  ? 

And  taking  them  both  in  his  feeble  arms,  he  fell 
a-weeping,  quite  desperately  and  for  a  long  time. 

And  when  his  weeping-fit  was  over,  when  he  had 
quite  wept  himself  out,  he  fell  asleep. 

And  when  he  awoke  he  was  conscious  that  another 
sad  thing  had  happened  to  him,  and  that  for  some 


"  HE   FELL    A- WEEPING,    QUITE   DESPERATELY  " 


208 

mysterious  cause  his  power  of  loving  had  not  come 
back  with  his  wandering  wits — had  been  left  behind — 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  it  was  gone  for  ever  and 
ever — would  never  come  back  again — not  even  his  love 
for  his  mother  and  sister,  not  even  his  love  for  Trilby 
— where  all  that  had  once  been  was  a  void,  a  gap,  a 
blankness.  .  .  . 

Truly,  if  Trilby  had  suffered  much,  she  had  also 
been  the  innocent  cause  of  terrible  suffering.  Poor 
Mrs.  Bagot,  in  her  heart,  could  not  forgive  her. 

I  feel  this  is  getting  to  be  quite  a  sad  story,  and 
that  it  is  high  time  to  cut  this  part  of  it  short. 

As  the  warmer  weather  came,  and  Little  Billee  got 
stronger,  the  studio  became  more  pleasant.  The  ladies' 
beds  were  removed  to  another  studio  on  the  next  land- 
ing, which  was  vacant,  and  the  friends  came  to  see 
Little  Billee,  and  make  it  more  lively  for  him  and  his 
sister. 

As  for  Taffy  and  the  Laird,  they  had  already  long 
been  to  Mrs.  Bagot  as  a  pair  of  crutches,  without 
whose  invaluable  help  she  could  never  have  held  her- 
self upright  to  pick  her  way  in  all  this  maze  of  trouble. 

Then  M.  Carrell  came  every  day  to  chat  with  his  fa- 
vorite pupil  and  gladden  Mrs.  Bagot's  heart.  And  also 
Durien,  Carnegie,  Petrolicoconose,  Vincent,  Antony, 
Lorrimer,  Dodor,  and  1'  Zouzou ;  Mrs.  Bagot  thought 
the  last  two  irresistible,  when  she  had  once  been  satis- 
fied that  they  were  u  gentlemen,"  in  spite  of  appear- 
ances. And,  indeed,  they  showed  themselves  to  great 
advantage ;  and  though  they  were  so  much  the  oppo- 
site to  Little  Billee  in  everything,  she  felt  almost  ma- 
ternal towards  them,  and  gave  them  innocent,  good, 


motherly  advice,  which  they  swallowed  avec  atten- 
drissement,  not  even  stealing  a  look  at  each  other. 
And  they  held  Mrs.  Bagot's  wool,  and  listened  to  Miss 
Bagot's  sacred  music  with  upturned  pious  eyes,  and 
mealy  mouths  that  butter  wouldn't  melt  in ! 

It  is  good  to  be  a  soldier  and  a  detrimental ;  you 
touch  the  hearts  of  women  and  charm  them — old  and 
young,  high  or  low  (excepting,  perhaps,  a  few  worldly 
mothers  of  marriageable  daughters).  They  take  the 
sticking  of  your  tongue  in  the  cheek  for  the  wearing 
of  your  heart  on  the  sleeve. 

Indeed,  good  women  all  over  the  world,  and  ever 
since  it  began,  have  loved  to  be  bamboozled  by  these 
genial,  roistering  dare-devils,  who  haven't  got  a  penny 
to  bless  themselves  with  (which  is  so  touching),  and  are 
supposed  to  carry  their  lives  in  their  hands,  even  in 
piping  times  of  peace.  Nay,  even  a  few  rare  lad 
women  sometimes,  such  women  as  the  best  and  wisest 
of  us  are  often  ready  to  sell  our  souls  for ! 

"  A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, . 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green — 
No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew.  .  .  ." 

As  if  that  wasn't  enough,  and  to  spare ! 

Little  Billee  could  hardly  realize  that  these  two  po- 
lite and  gentle  and  sympathetic  sons  of  Mars  were  the 
lively  grigs  who  had  made  themselves  so  pleasant  all 
round,  and  in  such  a  singular  manner,  on  the  top  of 
that  St.  Cloud  omnibus;  and  he  admired  how  they 
added  hypocrisy  to  their  other  crimes ! 


210 

Svengali  had  gone  back  to  Germany,  it  seemed, 
with  his  pockets  full  of  napoleons  and  big  Havana 
cigars,  and  wrapped  in  an  immense  fur-lined  coat, 
which  he  meant  to  wear  all  through  the  summer. 
But  little  Gecko  often  came  with  his  violin  and  made 
lovely  music,  and  that  seemed  to  do  Little  Billee  more 
good  than  anything  else. 

Jt  made  him  realize  in  his  brain  all  the  love  he 
could  no  longer  feel  in  his  heart.  The  sweet  melo- 
dic phrase,  rendered  by  a  master,  was  as  wholesome, 
refreshing  balm  to  him  while  it  lasted — or  as  manna 
in  the  wilderness.  It  was  the  one  good  thing  with- 
in his  reach,  never  to  be  taken  from  him  as  long  as 
his  ear-drums  remained  and  he  could  hear  a  master 
play. 

Poor  Gecko  treated  the  two  English  ladies  de  bas 
en  haut  as  if  they  had  been  goddesses,  even  when  they 
accompanied  him  on  the  piano !  He  begged  their 
pardon  for  every  wrong  note  they  struck,  and  adopt 
ed  their  "tempi" — that  is  the  proper  technical  term, 
I  believe — and  turned  scherzos  and  allegrettos  into 
funeral  dirges  to  please  them;  and  agreed  with  them, 
poor  little  traitor,  that  it  all  sounded  much  better  like 
that! 

O  Beethoven  !  O  Mozart !  did  you  turn  in  your 
graves  ? 

Then,  on  fine  afternoons,  Little  Billee  was  taken  for 
drives  to  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  with  his  mother  and 
sister  in  ail  open  fly,  and  generally  Taffy  as  a  fourth  ; 
to  Passy,  Auteuil,  Boulogne,  St.  Cloud,  Meudon— 
there  are  many  charming  places  within  an  easy  drire 
of  Paris. 


213 

And  sometimes  Taffy  or  the  Laird  »Tould  escort  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Bagot  to  the  Luxembourg  Gallery,  the  Lou- 
vre, the  Palais  Royal — to  the  Comedie  Franyaise  once 
01  twice ;  and  on  Sundays,  now  and  then,  to  the  Eng- 
lish chapel  in  the  Rue  Marbceuf.  It  was  all  very  pleas- 
ant ;  and  Miss  Bagot  looks  back  on  the  days  of  her 
brother's  convalescence  as  among  the  happiest  in  her 
life. 

And  they  would  all  five  dine  together  in  the  studio, 
with  Madame  Vinard  to  wait,  and  her  mother  (a  cor- 
don bleu)  for  cook ;  and  the  whole  aspect  of  the  place 
was  changed  and  made  fragrant,  sweet,  and  charming 
by  all  this  new  feminine  invasion  and  occupation. 

And  what  is  sweeter  to  watch  than  the  dawn  and 
growth  of  love's  young  dream,  when  strength  and 
beauty  meet  together  by  the  couch  of  a  beloved  in- 
valid? 

Of  course  the  sympathetic  reader  will  foresee  how 
readily  the  stalwart  Taffy  fell  a  victim  to  the  charms 
of  his  friend's  sweet  sister,  and  how  she  grew  to  re- 
turn his  more  than  brotherly  regard !  and  how,  one 
lovely  evening,  just  as  March  was  going  out  like  a 
lamb  (to  make  room  for  the  first  of  April),  little  Bil- 
lee  joined  their  hands  together,  and  gave  them  his 
brotherly  blessing ! 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  however,  nothing  of  this  kind 
happened.  Nothing  ever  happens  but  the  unforeseen. 
Pazienza ! 

Then  at  length  one  day — it  was  a  fine,  sunny,  show- 
ery day  in  April,  by-the-bye,  and  the  big  studio  win- 
dow was  open  at  the  top  and  let  in  a  pleasant  breeze 


213 

from  the  northwest,  just  as  when  our  little  story  began 
— a  railway  omnibus  drew  up  at  the  porte  cochere  in 
the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  and  carried  away  to 
the  station  of  the  Chemin  de  Fer  du  Nord  Little  Billee 
and  his  mother  and  sister,  and  all  their  belongings 
(the  famous  picture  had  gone  before) ;  and  Taffy  and 
the  Laird  rode  with  them,  their  faces  very  long,  to  see 
the  last  of  the  dear  people,  and  of  the  train  that  was 
to  bear  them  away  from  Paris ;  and  Little  Billee,  with 
his  quick,  prehensile,  aesthetic  eye,  took  many  a  long 
and  wistful  parting  gaze  at  many  a  French  thing  he 
loved,  from  the  gray  towers  of  Notre  Dame  down- 
ward— Heaven  only  knew  when  he  might  see  them 
again ! — so  he  tried  to  get  their  aspect  well  by  heart, 
that  he  might  have  the  better  store  of  beloved  shape 
and  color  memories  to  chew  the  cud  of  when  his  lost 
powers  of  loving  and  remembering  clearly  should  come 
back,  and  he  lay  awake  at  night  and  listened  to  the 
wash  of  the  Atlantic  along  the  beautiful  red  sandstone 
coast  at  home. 

He  had  a  faint  hope  that  he  should  feel  sorry  at 
parting  with  Taffy  and  the  Laird. 

But  when  the  time  came  for  saying  good-bye  he 
couldn't  feel  sorry  in  the  least,  for  all  he  tried  and 
strained  so  hard ! 

So  he  thanked  them  so  earnestly  and  profusely  for- 
all  their  kindness  and  patience  and  sympathy  (as  did 
also  his  mother  and  sister)  that  their  hearts  were  too 
full  to  speak,  and  their  manner  was  quite  gruff  —  it 
was  a  way  they  had  when  they  were  deeply  moved 
and  didn't  want  to  show  it. 

And  as  he  gazed  out  of  the  carriage  window  at  their 

IS 


814 

two  forlorn  figures  looking  after  him  when  the  train 
steamed  out  of  the  station,  his  sorrow  at  not  feeling 
sorry  made  him  look  so  haggard  and  so  woe-begone 
that  they  could  scarcely  bear  the  sight  of  him  depart- 
ing without  them,  and  almost  felt  as  if  they  must  fol- 
low by  the  next  train,  and  go  and  cheer  him  up  in 
Devonshire,  and  themselves  too. 

They  did  not  yield  to  this  amiable  weakness.  Sor- 
rowfully, arm  in  arm,  with  trailing  umbrellas,  they 
recrossed  the  river,  and  found  their  way  to  the  Cafe 
de  1'Odeon,  where  they  ate  many  omelets  in  silence, 
and  dejectedly  drank  of  the  best  they  could  get,  and 
were  very  sad  indeed. 


Nearly  five  years  have  elapsed  since  we  bade  fare- 
well and  au  revoir  to  Taffy  and  the  Laird  at  the  Paris 
station  of  the  Chemin  de  Fer  du  Nord,  and  wished 
Little  Billee  and  his  mother  and  sister  Godspeed  on 
their  way  to  Devonshire,  where  the  poor  sufferer  was 
to  rest  and  lie  fallow  for  a  few  months,  and  recruit 
his  lost  strength  and  energy,  that  he  might  follow  up 
his  first  and  well-deserved  success,  which  perhaps  con- 
tributed just  a  little  to  his  recovery. 

Many  of  my  readers  will  remember  his  splendid 
debut  at  the  Royal  Academy  in  Trafalgar  Square 
with  that  now  so  famous  canvas  "  The  Pitcher  Goes 
to  the  Well,"  and  how  it  was  sold  three  times  over  on 
the  morning  of  the  private  view,  the  third  time  for  a 
thousand  pounds — just  five  times  what  he  got  for  it 


'SORROWFULLY,  ARM  IN  ARM' 


216 

himself.  And  that  was  thought  a  large  sura  in  those 
days  for  a  beginner's  picture,  two  feet  by  four. 

I  am  well  aware  that  such  a  vulgar  test  is  no  crite- 
rion whatever  of  a  picture's  real  merit.  But  this  pict- 
ure is  well  known  to  all  the  world  by  this  time,  and 
sold  only  last  year  at  Christy's  (more  than  thirty-six 
years  after  it  was  painted)  for  three  thousand  pounds. 

Thirty  six  years !  That  goes  a  long  way  to  redeem 
even  three  thousand  pounds  of  all  their  cumulative 
vulgarity. 

"The  Pitcher"  is  now  in  the  National  Gallery, 
with  that  other  canvas  by  the  same  hand,  "  The  Moon- 
Dial."  There  they  hang  together  for  all  who  care  to 
see  them,  his  first  and  his  last — the  blossom  and  the 
fruit. 

He  had  not  long  to  live  himself,  and  it  was  his  good- 
fortune,  so  rare  among  those  whose  work  is  destined 
to  live  forever,  that  he  succeeded  at  his  first  go-off. 

And  his  success  was  of  the  best  and  most  flattering 
kind. 

It  began  high  up,  where  it  should,  among  the  mas- 
ters of  his  own  craft.  But  his  fame  filtered  quickly 
down  to  those  immediately  beneath,  and  through 
these  to  wider  circles.  And  there  was  quite  enough 
of  opposition  and  vilification  and  coarse  abuse  of  him 
to  clear  it  of  any  suspicion  of  cheapness  or  evanes- 
cence. What  better  antiseptic  can  there  be  than  the 
philistine's  deep  hate?  "What  sweeter,  fresher,  whole- 
somer  music  than  the  sound  of  his  voice  when  he  doth 
so  furiously  rage  ? 

Yes!  That  is  "good  production."  As  Svengali 
would  have  said,  "  C'est  un  cri  du  cceur !" 


217 

And  then,  when  popular  acclaim  brings  the  great 
dealers  and  the  big  cheques,  up  rises  the  printed  howl 
of  the  duffer,  the  disappointed  one,  the  "  wounded 
thing  with  an  angry  cry  " — the  prosperous  and  happy 
bagman  that  should  have  been,  who  has  given  up  all 
for  art,  and  finds  he  can't  paint  and  make  himself  a 
name,  after  all,  and  never  will,  so  falls  to  writing 
about  those  who  can — and  what  writing ! 

To  write  in  hissing  dispraise  of  our  more  successful 
fellow-craftsman,  and  of  those  who  admire  him !  that 
is  not  a  clean  or  pretty  trade.  It  seems,  alas  !  an  easy 
one,  and  it  gives  pleasure  to  so  many.  It  does  not 
even  want  good  grammar.  But  it  pays — well  enough 
even  to  start  and  run  a  magazine  with,  instead  of 
scholarship  and  taste  and  talent !  humor,  sense,  wit, 
and  wisdom !  It  is  something  like  the  purveying  of 
pornographic  pictures :  some  of  us  look  at  them  and 
laugh,  and  even  buy.  To  be  a  purchaser  is  bad 
enough ;  but  to  be  the  purveyor  thereof — ugh  ! 

A  poor  devil  of  a  cracked  soprano  (are  there  such 
people  still  ?)  who  has  been  turned  out  of  the  Pope's 
choir  because  he  can't  sing  in  tune,  after  all ! — think 
of  him  yelling  and  squeaking  his  treble  rage  at  Sant- 
ley — Sims  Reeves— Lablache ! 

Poor,  lost,  beardless  nondescript !  why  not  fly  to 
other  climes,  where  at  least  thou  might'st  hide  from 
us  thy  woful  crack,  and  keep  thy  miserable  secret  to 
thyself!  Are  there  no  harems  still  left  in  Stamboul 
for  the  likes  of  thee  to  sweep  and  clean,  no  women's 
beds  to  make  and  slops  to  empty,  and  doors  and  win- 
dows to  bar — and  tales  to  carry,  and  the  pasha's  con- 
fidence and  favor  and  protection  to  win  ?  Even  thai 


218 

is  a  better  trade  than  pandering  for  hire  to  the  basest 
instinct  of  all — the  dirty  pleasure  we  feel  (some  of  us) 
in  seeing  mud  and  dead  cats  and  rotten  eggs  flung  at 
those  we  cannot  but  admire — and  secretly  envy! 

All  of  which  eloquence  means  that  Little  Billee  was 
pitched  into  right  and  left,  as  well  as  overpraised.  And 
it  all  rolled  off  him  like  water  off  a  duck's  back,  both 
praise  and  blame. 

It  was  a  happy  summer  for  Mrs.  Bagot,  a  Bweet 
compensation  for  all  the  anguish  of  the  winter  that 
had  gone  before,  with  her  two  beloved  children  to- 
gether under  her  wing,  and  all  the  world  (for  her) 
ringing  with  the  praise  of  her  boy,  the  apple  of  her 
eye,  so  providentially  rescued  from  the  very  jaws  of 
death,  and  from  other  dangers  almost  as  terrible  to 
her  fiercely  jealous  maternal  heart. 

And  his  affection  for  her  seemed  to  grow  with  his 
returning  health ;  but,  alas !  he  was  never  again  to  be 
quite  the  same  light-hearted,  innocent,  expansive  lad 
he  had  been  before  that  fatal  year  spent  in  Paris. 

One  chapter  of  his  life  was  closed,  never  to  be  re- 
opened, never  to  be  spoken  of  again  by  him  to  her,  by 
her  to  him.  She  could  neither  forgive  nor  forget.  She 
could  but  be  silent. 

Otherwise  he  was  pleasant  and  sweet  to  live  with, 
and  everything  was  done  to  make  his  life  at  home  as 
sweet  and  pleasant  as  a  loving  mother  could — as  could 
a  most  charming  sister — and  others'  sisters  who  were 
charming  too,  and  much  disposed  to  worship  at  the 
shrine  of  this  young  celebrity,  who  woke  up  one 
morning  in  their  little  village  to  find  himself  famous, 


219 

and  bore  his  blushing  honors  so  meekly.  And  among 
them  the  vicar's  daughter,  his  sister's  friend  and  co- 
teacher  at  the  Sunday  -  school,  "  a  simple,  pure,  and 
pious  maiden  of  gentle  birth,"  everything  he  once 
thought  a  young  lady  should  be;  and  her  name  it 
was  Alice,  and  she  was  sweet,  and  her  hair  was  brown 
— as  brown ! .  .  . 

And  if  he  no  longer  found  the  simple  country  pleas- 
ares,  the  junketings  and  picnics,  the  garden  -  parties 
and  innocent  little  musical  evenings,  quite  so  exciting 
as  of  old,  he  never  showed  it. 

Indeed,  there  was  much  that  he  did  not  show,  and 
that  his  mother  and  sister  tried  in  vain  to  guess — many 
things. 

And  among  them  one  thing  that  constantly  preoc- 
cupied and  distressed  him — the  numbness  of  his  affec- 
tions. He  could  be  as  easily  demonstrative  to  his 
mother  and  sister  as  though  nothing  had  ever  hap- 
pened to  him  —  from  the  mere  force  of  a  sweet  old 
habit — even  more  so,  out  of  sheer  gratitude  and  com- 
punction. 

But,  alas!  he  felt  that  in  his  heart  he  could  no 
longer  care  for  them  in  the  least ! — nor  for  Taffy,  nor 
the  Laird,  nor  for  himself ;  not  even  for  Trilby,  of 
whom  he  constantly  thought,  but  without  emotion ; 
and  of  whose  strange  disappearance  he  had  been  told, 
and  the  story  had  been  confirmed  in  all  its  details  by 
Angele  Boisse,  to  whom  he  had  written. 

It  was  as  though  some  part  of  his  brain  where  his 
affections  were  seated  had  been  paralyzed,  while  all 
the  rest  of  it  was  as  keen  and  as  active  as  ever.  He 
felt  like  some  poor  live  bird  or  beast  or  reptile,  a  part 


220 

of  whose  cerebrum  (or  cerebellum,  or  whatever  it  is) 
had  been  dug  out  by  the  vivisector  for  experimental 
purposes;  and  the  strongest  emotional  feeling  he 
seemed  capable  of  was  his  anxiety  and  alarm  about 
this  curious  symptom,  and  his  concern  as  to  whether 
he  ought  to  mention  it  or  not. 

He  did  not  do  so,  for  fear  of  causing  distress,  hoping 
that  it  would  pass  away  in  time,  and  redoubled  his  ca- 
resses to  his  mother  and  sister,  and  clung  to  them  more 
than  ever ;  and  became  more  considerate  of  others  in 
manner,  word,  and  deed  than  he  had  ever  been  before, 
as  though  by  constantly  assuming  the  virtue  he  had 
no  longer  he  would  gradually  coax  it  back  again. 
There  was  no  trouble  he  would  not  take  to  give  pleas- 
ure to  the  humblest. 

Also,  his  vanity  about  himself  had  become  as  noth- 
ing, and  he  missed  it  almost  as  much  as  his  affec- 
tion. 

Yet  he  told  himself  over  and  over  again  that  he  was 
a  great  artist,  and  that  he  would  spare  no  pains  to 
make  himself  a  greater.  But  that  was  no  merit  of  his 
own. 

2+2  =  4,  also  2x2  =  4;  that  peculiarity  was  no  rea- 
son why  4  should  be  conceited ;  for  what  was  4  but 
a  result,  either  way  ? 

"Well,  he  was  like  4 — just  an  inevitable  result  of  cir- 
cumstances over  which  he  had  no  control  —  a  mere 
product  or  sum  ;  and  though  he  meant  to  make  him- 
self as  big  a  4  as  he  could  (to  cultivate  his  peculiar 
fourness},  he  could  no  longer  feel  the  old  conceit  and 
self-complacency ;  and  they  had  been  a  joy,  and  it  was 
hard  to  do  without  them. 


221 

At  the  bottom  of  it  all  was  a  vague,  disquieting  un- 
happiness,  a  constant  fidget. 

And  it  seemed  to  him,  and  much  to  his  distress, 
that  such  mild  unhappiness  would  be  the  greatest  he 
could  ever  feel  henceforward — but  that,  such  as  it  was, 
it  would  never  leave  him,  and  that  his  moral  existence 
would  be  for  evermore  one  long,  gray,  gloomy  blank — 
the  glimmer  of  twilight — never  glad,  confident  morn- 
ing again ! 

So  much  for  Little  Billee's  convalescence. 

Then  one  day  in  the  late  autumn  he  spread  his  wings 
and  flew  away  to  London,  which  was  very  ready  with 
open  arms  to  welcome  William  Bagot,  the  already  fa- 
mous painter,  alias  Little  Billee  1 


part  jffftb 

LITTLE  BILLEE 

An  Interlude 

"Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  Soul  like  death  itself  comet 

down; 

It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  flare  not  dream  its  own ; 
That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our  tears, 
And,  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  yet,  'tis  where  the  ice  ap 
pears. 

•'Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent  lips,  and  mirth  distract  the 

breast, 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their  former  hope 

of  rest: 

'Tis  but  as  ivy  leaves  around  a  ruined  turret  wreathe, 
All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without,  but  worn  and  gray  be- 
neath." 

WHEN  Taffy  and  the  Laird  went  back  to  the  stu- 
dio in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  and  resumed 
their  ordinary  life  there,  it  was  with  a  sense  of  deso- 
lation and  dull  bereavement  beyond  anything  they 
could  have  imagined ;  and  this  did  not  seem  to  lessen 
as  the  time  wore  on. 

They  realized  for  the  first  time  how  keen  and  pen- 
etrating and  un intermittent  had  been  the  charm  of 
those  two  central  figures — Trilby  and  Little  Billee — 
and  how  hard  it  was  to  live  without  them,  after  such 
intimacv  as  had  been  theirs. 


233 

"  Oh,  it  has  been  a  jolly  time,  though  it  didn't  last 
long  I"  So  Trilby  had  written  in  her  farewell  letter 
to  Taffy ;  and  these  words  were  true  for  Taffy  and 
the  Laird  as  well  as  for  her. 

And  that  is  the  worst  of  those  dear  people  who 
have  charm :  they  are  so  terrible  to  do  without,  when 
once  you  have  got  accustomed  to  them  and  all  their 
ways. 

And  when,  besides  being  charming,  they  are  sim- 
ple, clever,  affectionate,  constant,  and  sincere,  like 
Trilby  and  Little  Billee !  Then  the  lamentable  hole 
their  disappearance  makes  is  not  to  be  filled  up !  And 
when  they  are  full  of  genius,  like  Little  Billee — and 
like  Trilby,  funny  without  being  vulgar  !  For  so  she 
always  seemed  to  the  Laird  and  Taffy,  even  in  French 
(in  spite  of  her  Gallic  audacities  of  thought,  speech, 
and  gesture). 

All  seemed  to  have  suffered  change.  The  very 
boxing  and  fencing  were  gone  through  perfunctorily, 
for  mere  health's  sake ;  and  a  thin  layer  of  adipose 
deposit  began  to  soften  the  outlines  of  the  hills  and 
dales  on  Taffy's  mighty  forearm. 

Dodor  and  1'  Zouzou  no  longer  came  so  often,  now 
that  the  charming  Little  Billee  and  his  charming 
mother  and  still  more  charming  sister  had  gone  away— 
nor  Carnegie,  nor  Antony,  nor  Lorrimer,  nor  Vincent, 
nor  the  Greek.  Gecko  never  came  at  all.  Even  Sven- 
gali  was  missed,  little  as  he  had  been  liked.  It  is  a 
dismal  and  sulky  looking  piece  of  furniture,  a  grand- 
piano  that  nobody  ever  plays — with  all  its  sound  and 
its  souvenirs  locked  up  inside — a  kind  of  mausoleum ! 
a  lop-sided  coffin — trestles  and  all!' 


So  it  went  back  to  London  by  the  "little  quick- 
ness," just  as  it  had  come ! 

Thus  Taffy  and  the  Laird  grew  quite  sad  and  mopy, 
and  lunched  at  the  Cafe  de  1'Odeon  every  day — till 
the  goodness  of  the  omelets  palled,  and  the  redness 
of  the  wine  there  got  on  their  nerves  and  into  their 
heads  and  faces,  and  made  them  sleepy  till  dinner- 
time. And  then,  waking  up,  they  dressed  respecta- 
bly, and  dined  expensively,  "like  gentlemen,"  in  the 
Palais  Royal,  or  the  Passage  Choiseul,  or  the  Passage 
des  Panoramas  —  for  three  francs,  three  francs  fifty, 
even  five  francs  a  head,  and  half  a  franc  to  the  wait- 
er!— and  went  to  the  theatre  almost  every  night,  on 
that  side  of  the  water — and  more  often  than  not  they 
took  a  cab  home,  each  smoking  a  Panatella,  which 
costs  twenty-five  centimes — five  sous — 2$d. 

Then  they  feebly  drifted  into  quite  decent  society- 
like  Lorrimer  and  Carnegie  —  with  dress -coats  and 
white  ties  on,  and  their  hair  parted  in  the  middle  and 
down  the  back  of  the  head,  and  brought  over  the  ears 
in  a  bunch  at  each  side,  as  was  the  English  fashion  in 
those  days;  and  subscribed  to  Galignantfs  Messenger ; 
and  had  themselves  proposed  and  seconded  for  the 
Cercle  Anglais  in  the  Rue  Sainte-n'y  touche,  a  circle 
of  British  philistines  of  the  very  deepest  dye ;  and 
went  to  hear  divine  service  on  Sunday  mornings  in 
the  Rue  Marbceuf ! 

Indeed,  by  the  end  of  the  summer  they  had  sunk 
into  such  depths  of  demoralization  that  they  felt  they 
must  really  have  a  change ;  and  decided  on  giving  up 
the  studio  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  and  leav- 
ing Paris  for  good  ;  and  going  to  settle  for  the  winter 


DEMORALIZATION 


in  Diisseldorf,  which  is  a  very  pleasant  place  for  Eng- 
lish painters  who  do  not  wish  to  overwork  themselves 
—as  the  Laird  well  knew,  having  spent  a  year  there. 

It  ended  in  Taffy's  going  to  Antwerp  for  the  Ker- 
raesse,  to  paint  the  Flemish  drunkard  of  our  time 
just  as  he  really  is  ;  and  the  Laird's  going  to  Spain, 
so  that  he  might  study  toreadors  from  the  life. 

I  may  as  well  state  here  that  the  Laird's  toreador 
pictures,  which  had  had  quite  a  vogue  in  Scotland 
as  long  as  he  had  been  content  to  paint  them  in 
the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts,  quite  ceased  to  please 
(or  sell)  after  he  had  been  to  Seville  and  Madrid  ;  so 
he  took  to  painting  Roman  cardinals  and  Neapolitan 


226 

piffcrari  from  the  depths  of  his  consciousness  —  and 
was  so  successful  that  he  made  up  his  mind  he  would 
never  spoil  his  market  by  going  to  Italy ! 

So  he  went  and  painted  his  cardinals  and  his  piffe- 
rari  in  Algiers,  and  Taffy  joined  him  there,  and  paint- 
ed Algerian  Jews — just  as  they  really  are  (and  didn't 
sell  them) ;  and  then  they  spent  a  year  in  Munich, 
and  then  a  year  in  Diisseldorf,  and  a  winter  in  Cairo, 
and  so  on. 

And  all  this  time  Taffy,  who  took  everything  au 
grand  serieux — especially  the  claims  and  obligations 
of  friendship  —  corresponded  regularly  with  Little 
Billee,  who  wrote  him  long  and  amusing  letters  back 
again,  and  had  plenty  to  say  about  his  life  in  London 
—which  was  a  series  of  triumphs,  artistic  and  social 
— and  you  would  have  thought  from  his  letters,  mod- 
est though  they  were,  that  no  happier  young  man,  or 
more  elate,  was  to  be  found  anywhere  in  the  world. 

It  was  a  good  time  in  England,  just  then,  for  young 
artists  of  promise;  a  time  of  evolution,  revolution, 
change,  and  development  —  of  the  founding  of  new 
schools  and  the  crumbling  away  of  old  ones — a  keen 
struggle  for  existence — a  surviving  of  the  fit — a  prep- 
aration, let  us  hope,  for  the  ultimate  survival  of  the 
fittest. 

And  among  the  many  glories  of  this  particular  pe- 
riod two  names  stand  out  very  conspicuously — for  the 
immediate  and  (so  far)  lasting  fame  their  bearers 
achieved,  and  the  wide  influence  they  exerted,  and 
continue  to  exert  still. 

The  world  will  not  easily  forget  Frederic  Walker 
and  William  Bagot,  those  two  singularly  gifted  boys, 


227 


whom  it  soon  became  the  fashion  to  bracket  together, 
to  compare  and  to  contrast,  as  one  compares  and  con- 
trasts Thackeray  and  Dickens,  Carlyle  and  Macaulay, 
Tennyson  and  Browning  —  a  futile  though  pleasant 
practice,  of  which  the  temptations  seem  irresistible ! 

Yet  why  compare  the  lily  and  the  rose  ? 

These  two  young  masters  had  the  genius  and  the 
luck  to  be  the  progenitors  of  much  of  the  best  art- 
work that  has  been  done  in  England  during  the  last 
thirty    years,  in   oils,  in 
water-color,  in  black  and 
white. 

They  were  both  essen- 
tially English  and  of 
their  own  time ;  both  ab- 
solutely original,  receiv- 
ing their  impressions 
straight  from  nature  it- 
self ;  uninfluenced  by  any 
school,  ancient  or  mod- 
ern, they  founded  schools 
instead  of  following  any, 
and  each  was  a  law  unto 
himself,  and  a  law-giver 
unto  many  others. 

Both  were  equally  great  in  whatever  they  attempted 
— landscape,  figures,  birds,  beasts,  or  fishes.  Who  does 
not  remember  the  fish-monger's  shop  by  F.  Walker,  or 
W.  Bagot's  little  piebald  piglings,  and  their  venerable 
black  mother,  and  their  immense,  fat,  wallowing  pink 
papa  ?  An  ineffable  charm  of  poetry  and  refinement, 
of  pathos  and  sympathy  and  delicate  humor  combined, 


FRKD   WALKER 


an  incomparable  ease  and  grace  and  felicity  of  work- 
manship belong  to  each;  and  yet  in  their  work  are 
they  not  as  wide  apart  as  the  poles ;  each  complete  in 
himself  and  yet  a  complement  to  the  other? 

And,  oddly  enough,  they  were  both  singularly  alike 
in  aspect — both  small  and  slight,  though  beautifully 
made,  with  tiny  hands  and  feet ;  always  arrayed  as  the 
lilies  of  the  field,  for  all  they  toiled  and  spun  so  ar- 
duously ;  both  had  regularly  featured  faces  of  a  noble 
cast  and  most  winning  character ;  both  had  the  best 
and  simplest  manners  in  the  world,  and  a  way  of  get- 
ting themselves  much  and  quickly  and  permanently 
liked 

Que  la  terre  leur  so  it  Ugere  ! 

And  who  can  say  that  the  fame  of  one  is  greater 
than  the  other's ! 

Their  pinnacles  are  twin,  I  venture  to  believe — of 
just  an  equal  height  and  width  and  thickness,  like  their 
bodies  in  this  life ;  but  unlike  their  frail  bodies  in  one 
respect :  no  taller  pinnacles  are  to  be  seen,  methinks, 
in  all  the  garden  of  the  deathless  dead  painters  of  our 
time,  and  none  more  built  to  last ! 

But  it  is  not  with  the  art  of  Little  Billee,  nor  with 
his  fame  as  a  painter,  that  we  are  chiefly  concerned  in 
this  unpretending  little  tale,  except  in  so  far  as  they 
have  some  bearing  on  his  character  and  his  fate. 

"I  should  like  to  know  the  detailed  history  of  the 
Englishman's  first  love,  and  how  he  lost  his  inno- 
cence !" 

"  Ask  him !" 

"  Ask  him  yourself  I" 


Thus  Papelard  and  Bouchardy,  on  the  morning  of 
Little  Billee's  first  appearance  at  Carrel's  studio,  in 
the  Rue  des  Potirons  St.  Michel. 

And  that  is  the  question  the  present  scribe  is  doing 
his  little  best  to  answer. 

A  good-looking,  famous,  well-bred,  and  well-dressed 
youth  finds  that  London  Society  opens  its  doors  very 
readily ;  he  hasn't  long  to  knock ;  and  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  a  youth  more  fortunately  situated^ 
handsomer,  more  famous,  better  dressed  or  better  bred, 
more  seemingly  happy  and  successful,  with  more  at- 
tractive qualities  and  more  condonable  faults,  than 
Little  Billee,  as  Taffy  and  the  Laird  found  him  when 
they  came  to  London  after  their  four  or  five  years  in 
foreign  parts — their  Wanderjahr. 

He  had  a  fine  studio  and  a  handsome  suite  of  rooms 
in  Fitzroy  Square.  Beautiful  specimens  of  his  unfin- 
ished work,  endless  studies,  hung  on  his  studio  walls. 
Everything  else  was  as  nice  as  it  could  be — the  furni- 
ture, the  bibelots,  and  bric-a-brac,  the  artistic  foreign 
and  Eastern  knick-knacks  and  draperies  and  hangings 
and  curtains  and  rugs — the  semi-grand  piano  by  Col- 
lard  &  Collard. 

That  immortal  canvas,  the  "Moon-Dial"  (just  be- 
gun, and  already  commissioned  by  Moses  Lyon,  the 
famous  picture-dealer),  lay  on  his  easel. 

No  man  worked  harder  and  with  teeth  more  clinched 
than  Little  Billee  when  he  was  at  work — none  rested 
or  played  more  discreetly  when  it  was  time  to  rest  or 
play. 

The  glass  on  his  mantel-piece  was  full  of  cards  of 


280 


invitation,  reminders,  pretty  mauve  and  pink  and  lilac- 
scented  notes;  nor  were  coronets  wanting  on  many  of 
these  hospitable  little  missives.  lie  had  quite  over- 
come his  fan- 
cied aversion 
for  bloated 
dukes  and 
lords  and  the 
rest  (we  all  do 
sooner  or  lat- 
er, if  things  go 
well  with  us); 
especially  for 
their  wives 
and  sisters  and 
daughters  and 
female  cous- 
ins; even  their 
mothers  and 
aunts.  In 

point  of  fact,  and  in  spite  of  his 
tender  years,  he  was  in  some 
danger  (for  his  art)  of  developing 
into  that  type  so  adored  by  sym- 
pathetic women  who  haven't  got 
much  to  do :  the  friend,  the  tame 
cat,  the  platonic  lover  (with  many 
loves) — the  squire  of  dames,  the 
trusty  one,  of  whom  husbands 
and  brothers  have  no  fear! — 
the  delicate,  harmless  dilettante 
PLATONIC  LOVK  of  Eros  —  the  dainty  shepherd 


231 

who  dwells  "  dans  le  pays  du  tendre  1"  —  and  stops 
there! 

The  woman  flatters  and  the  man  confides  —  and 
there  is  no  danger  whatever,  I'm  told — and  I  am  glad  ! 

One  man  loves  his  fiddle  (or,  alas !  his  neighbor's 
sometimes)  for  all  the  melodies  he  can  wake  from  it- 
it  is  but  a  selfish  love ! 

Another,  who  is  no  fiddler,  may  love  a  fiddle  too ; 
for  its  symmetry,  its  neatness,  its  color  —  its  deli- 
cate grainings,  the  lovely  lines  and  curves  of  its  back 
and  front  —  for  its  own  sake,  so  to  speak.  He  may 
have  a  whole  galleryful  of  fiddles  to  love  in  this  in- 
nocent way — a  harem ! — and  yet  not  know  a  single 
note  of  music,  or  even  care  to  hear  one.  He  will  dust 
them  and  stroke  them,  and  take  them  down  and  try 
to  put  them  in  tune — pizzicato! — and  put  them  back 
again,  and  call  them  ever  such  sweet  little  pet  names : 
viol,  viola,  viola  d'amore,  viol  di  gamba,  violino  mio ! 
and  breathe  his  little  troubles  into  them,  and  they 
will  give  back  inaudible  little  murmurs  in  sympathetic 
response,  like  a  damp  JEolian  harp ;  but  he  will  never 
draw  a  bow  across  the  strings,  nor  wake  a  single  chord 
— or  discord ! 

And  who  shall  say  he  is  not  wise  in  his  generation? 
It  is  but  an  old-fashioned  philistine  notion  that  fiddles 
were  only  made  to  be  played  on — the  fiddles  them- 
selves are  beginning  to  resent  it ;  and  rightly,  I  wot ! 

In  this  harmless  fashion  Little  Billee  was  friends 
with  more  than  one  fine  lady  de  par  le  monde. 

Indeed,  he  had  been  reproached  by  his  more  bo- 
hemian  brothers  of  the  brush  for  being  something  of 
a  tuft-hunter — most  unjustty.  But  nothing  gives  such 


282 

keen  offence  to  our  unsuccessful  brother,  bohemian  or 
bourgeois,  as  our  sudden  intimacy  with  the  so-called 
great,  the  little  lords  and  ladies  of  this  little  world  1 
Not  even  our  fame  and  success,  and  all  the  joy  and 
pride  they  bring  us,  are  so  hard  to"  condone — so  im- 
bittering,  so  humiliating,  to  the  jealous  fraternal 
heart. 

Alas!  poor  humanity — that  the  mere  countenance 
of  our  betters  (if  they  are  our  betters!)  should  be 
thought  so  priceless  a  boon,  so  consummate  an  achieve- 
ment, so  crowning  a  glory,  as  all  that  1 

"A  dirty  bit  of  orange-peel, 
The  stump  of  a  cigar — 
Once  trod  on  by  a  princely  heel, 
How  beautiful  they  are  1" 

Little  Billee  was  no  tuft-hunter  —  he  was  the  tuft- 
hunted,  or  had  been.  No  one  of  his  kind  was  ever 
more  persistently,  resolutely,  hospitably  harried  than 
this  young  "hare  with  many  friends"  by  people  of 
rank  and  fashion. 

And  at  first  he  thought  them  most  charming;  as 
they  so  often  are,  these  graceful,  gracious,  gay,  good- 
natured  stoics  and  barbarians,  whose  manners  are  as 
easy  and  simple  as  their  morals — but  how  much  better ! 
— and  who,  at  least,  have  this  charm,  that  they  can 
wallow  in  untold  gold  (when  they  happen  to  possess 
it)  without  ever  seeming  to  stink  of  the  same:  yes, 
they  bear  wealth  gracefully — and  the  want  of  it  more 
gracefully  still !  and  these  are  pretty  accomplishments 
that  have  yet  to  be  learned  by  our  new  aristocracy  of 
the  shop  and  counting-house,  Jew  or  gentile,  which  is 


233 

everywhere  elbowing  its  irresistible  way  to  the  top 
and  front  of  everything,  both  here  and  abroad. 

Then  he  discovered  that,  much  as  you  might  be 
with  them,  you  could  never  be  of  them,  unless  per- 
chance you  managed  to  hook  on  by  marrying  one  of 
their  ugly  ducklings — their  failures — their  remnants! 
and  even  then  life  isn't  all  beer  and  skittles  for  a  rank 
outsider,  I'm  told !  Then  he  discovered  that  he  didn't 
want  to  be  of  them  in  the  least ;  especially  at  such  a 
cost  as  that!  and  that  to  be  very  much  with  them 
•was  apt  to  pall,  like  everything  else. 

Also,  he  found  that  they  were  very  mixed ;  good, 
bad,  and  indifferent — and  not  always  very  dainty  or 
select  in  their  predilections,  since  they  took  unto  their 
bosoms  such  queer  outsiders  (just  for  the  sake  of  being 
amused  a  little  while)  that  their  capricious  favor  ceased 
to  be  an  honor  and  a  glory — if  it  ever  was !  And,  then, 
their  fickleness ! 

Indeed,  he  found,  or  thought  he  found,  that  they 
could  be  just  as  clever,  as  liberal,  as  polite  or  refined 
— as  narrow,  insolent,  swaggering,  coarse,  and  vulgar 
— as  handsome,  as  ugly — as  graceful,  as  ungainly — as 
modest  or  conceited,  as  any  other  upper  class  of  the 
community — and,  indeed,  some  lower  ones ! 

Beautiful  young  women,  who  had  been  taught  how 
to  paint  pretty  little  landscapes  (with  an  ivy-mantled 
ruin  in  the  middle  distance),  talked  technically  of  paint- 
ing to  him,  de  pair  a  pair,  as  though  they  were  quite 
on  the  same  artistic  level,  and  didn't  mind  admitting 
it,  in  spite  of  the  social  gulf  between. 

Hideous  old  frumps  (osseous  or  obese,  yet  with  un- 
duly bared  neck,  and  shoulders  that  made  him  sick) 


patronized  him  and  gave  him  good  advice,  and  told 
him  to  emulate  Mr.  Buckner  both  in  his  genius  and 
his  manners — since  Mr.  Buckner  was  the  only  "  gentle- 
man" who  ever  painted  for  hire;  and  they  promised 
him,  in  time,  an  equal  success ! 

Here  and  there  some  sweet  old  darling  specially  en- 
slaved him  by  her  kindness,  grace,  knowledge  of  life, 
and  tender  womanly  sympathy,  like  the  dowager  Lady 
Chiselhurst — or  some  sweet  young  one,  like  the  lovely 
Duchess  of  Towers,  by  her  beauty,  wit,  good-humor, 
and  sisterly  interest  in  all  he  did,  and  who  in  some 
vague,  distant  manner  constantly  reminded  him  of 
Trilby,  although  she  was  such  a  great  and  fashionable 
lady! 

But  just  such  darlings,  old  or  young,  were  to  be 
found,  with  still  higher  ideals,  in  less  exalted  spheres ; 
and  were  easier  of  access,  with  no  impassable  gulf 
between  —  spheres  where  there  was  no  patronizing, 
nothing  but  deference  and  warm  appreciation  and 
delicate  flattery,  from  men  and  women  alike  —  and 
where  the  aged  Venuses,  whose  prime  was  of  the  days 
of  "Waterloo,  went  with  their  historical  remains  duly 
shrouded,  like  ivy  -  mantled  ruins  (and  in  the  middle 
distance !). 

So  he  actually  grew  tired  of  the  great  before  they 
had  time  to  tire  of  him  —  incredible  as  it  may  seem, 
and  against  nature;  and  this  saved  him  many  a  heart- 
burning; and  he  ceased  to  be  seen  at  fashionable 
drums  or  gatherings  of  any  kind,  except  in  one  or  two 
houses  where  he  was  especially  liked  and  made  wel- 
come for  his  own  sake;  such  as  Lord  Chiselhurst's  in 
Piccadillv,  where  the  "Moon-Dial"  found  a  home  for 


a* 

a  few  years,  before  going  to  its  last  home  and  final 
resting-place  in  the  National  Gallery  (R.  I.  P.) ;  or 
Baron  Stoppenheira's  in  Cavendish  Square,  where 
many  lovely  little  water-colors  signed  W.  B.  occupied 
places  of  honor  on  gorgeously  gilded  walls;  or  the 
gorgeously  gilded  bachelor  rooms  of  Mr.  Moses  Lyon, 
the  picture-dealer  in  Upper  Conduit  Street — for  Little 
Billee  (I  much  grieve  to  say  it  of  a  hero  of  romance) 
was  an  excellent  man  of  business.  That  infinitesimal 
dose  of  the  good  old  Oriental  blood  kept  him  straight, 
and  not  only  made  him  stick  to  his  last  through  thick 
and  thin,  but  also  to  those  whose  foot  his  last  was 
found  to  match  (for  he  couldn't  or  wouldn't  alter  his 
last). 

He  loved  to  make  as  much  money  as  he  could,  that 
he  might  spend  it  royally  in  pretty  gifts  to  his  mother 
and  sister,  whom  it  w^s  his  pleasure  to  load  in  this 
way,  and  whose  circumstances  had  been  very  much 
altered  by  his  quick  success.  There  was  never  a  more 
generous  son  or  brother  than  Little  Billee  of  the 
clouded  heart,  that  couldn't  love  any  longer  1 

As  a  set-off  to  all  these  splendors,  it  was  also  his 
pleasure  now  and  again  to  study  London  life  at  its 
ower  end — the  eastest  end  of  all.  "Whitechapel,  the 
Minories,  the  Docks,  Ratcliffe  Highway,  Rotherhithe, 
soon  got  to  know  him  well,  and  he  found  much  to 
interest  him  and  much  to  like  among  their  denizens, 
and  made  as  many  friends  there  among  ship-carpen- 
ters, excisemen,  longshoremen,  jack-tars,  and  what  not, 
as  in  Bayswater  and  Belgravia  (or  Bloomsbury). 

He  was  especially  fond  of  freouenting  sing-songs,  of 


237 


"free-and-easys,"  where  good,  hard-working  fellows 
met  of  an  evening  to  relax  and  smoke  and  drink  and 
sing — round  a  table  well  loaded  with  steaming  tum- 
blers and  pewter  pots,  at  one  end  of  which  sits  Mr. 


THE    MOON-DIAL 


Chairman  in  all  his  glory,  and  at  the  other  "  Mr.  Vice." 
They  are  open  to  any  one  who  can  afford  a  pipe,  a 
screw  of  tobacco,  and  a  pint  of  beer,  and  who  is  will- 
ing to  do  his  best  and  sing  a  song. 

No  introduction  is  needed ;  as  soon  as  any  one  has 
seated  himself  and  made  himself  comfortable,  Mr. 
Chairman  taps  the  table  with  his  long  clay  pipe,  begs 
for  silence,  and  says  to  his  vis-a-vis :  "  Mr.  Vice,  it 
strikes  me  as  the  gen'l'man  as  is  just  come  in  'as  got  a 


singing  face.  Per'aps,  Mr.  Vice,  you'll  be  so  very  kind 
as  juster  harsk  the  aforesaid  gen'l'man  to  oblige  us 
with  a  'armony." 

Mr.  Vice  then  puts  it  to  the  new-comer,  who,  thus 
appealed  to,  simulates  a  modest  surprise,  and  finally 
professes  his  willingness,  like  Mr.  Barkis ;  then,  clear- 
ing his  throat  a  good  many  times,  looks  up  to  the  ceiJ 
ing.  and  after  one  or  two  unsuccessful  starts  in  differ 
ent  keys,  bravely  sings  "  Kathleen  Mavourneen,"  let  us 
say — perhaps  in  a  touchingly  sweet  tenor  voice : 

"  Kathleen  Mavourneen,  the  gry  dawn  is  brykin', 
The  'orn  of  the  'unter  is  'eurd  on  the  'ill."  .  .  . 

And  Little  Billee  didn't  mind  the  dropping  of  all  these 
aitches  if  the  voice  was  sympathetic  and  well  in  tune, 
and  the  sentiment  simple,  tender,  and  sincere. 
Or  else,  with  a  good  rolling  jingo  bass,  it  was, 

"  'Earte  o'  hoak  are  our  ships  ;  'earts  o'  hoak  are  our  men ; 
And  we'll  fight  and  we'll  conkwer  agen  and  agen  1" 

And  no  imperfection  of  accent,  in  Little  Billee's  esti- 
mation, subtracted  one  jot  from  the  manly  British 
pluck  that  found  expression  in  these  noble  sentiments 
— nor  added  one  tittle  to  their  swaggering,  blatant, 
and  idiotically  aggressive  vulgarity  ! 

"Well,  the  song  finishes  with  general  applause  all 
round.  Then  the  chairman  says,  "  Your  'ealth  and 
song,  sir !"  And  drinks,  and  all  do  the  same. 

Then  Mr.  Vice  asks,  "  What  shall  we  'ave  the  pleas- 
ure of  saying,  sir,  after  that  very  nice  'armony?" 

And  the  blushing  vocalist,  if  he  knows  the  ropes, 


MO 

replies,  "  A  roast  leg  o'  mutton  in  Newgate,  and  no 
body  to  eat  it !"  Or  else,  "  May  'im  as  is  going  up  the 
'ill  o'  prosperity  never  meet  a  friend  coming  down !" 
Or  else,  "  'Ere's  to  'er  as  shares  our  sorrers  and  doubles 
our  joys !"  Or  else,  "  'Ere's  to  'er  as  shares  our  joys 
and  doubles  our  expenses !"  and  so  forth. 

More  drink,  more  applause,  and  many  'ear,  'ears. 
And  Mr.  Vice  says  to  the  singer:  "You  call,  sir. 
"Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  call  on  some  other  gen'l'man 
for  a  'armony  ?"  And  so  the  evening  goes  on. 

And  nobody  was  more  quickly  popular  at  such 
gatherings,  or  sang  better  songs,  or  proposed  more 
touching  sentiments,  or  filled  either  chair  or  vice-chair 
with  more  grace  and  dignity  than  Little  Billee.  Not 
even  Dodor  or  1'  Zouzou  could  have  beaten  him  at  that. 

And  he  was  as  happy,  as  genial,  and  polite,  as  much 
at  his  ease,  in  these  humble  gatherings  as  in  the  gilded 
saloons  of  the  great,  where  grand-pianos  are,  and  hired 
accompanists,  and  highly -paid  singers,  and  a  good 
deal  of  talk  while  they  sing. 

So  his  powers  of  quick,  wide,  universal  sympathy 
grew  and  grew,  and  made  up  to  him  a  little  for  his 
lost  power  of  being  specially  fond  of  special  individ- 
uals. For  he  made  no  close  friends  among  men,  and 
ruthlessly  snubbed  all  attempts  at  intimacy — all  ad- 
vances towards  an  affection  which  he  felt  he  could  not 
return ;  and  more  than  one  enthusiastic  admirer  of  his 
talent  and  his  charm  was  forced  to  acknowledge  that, 
with  all  his  gifts,  he  seemed  heartless  and  capricious  ; 
as  ready  to  drop  you  as  he  had  been  to  take  you  up. 

He  loved  to  be  wherever  he  could  meet  his  kind, 
high  or  low ;  and  felt  as  happy  on  a  penny  steamer 


241 

as  on  the  yacht  of  a  millionaire — on  the  crowded  knife- 
board  of  an  omnibus  as  on  the  box-seat  of  a  nobleman's 
drag — happier ;  he  liked  to  feel  the  warm  contact  of 
his  fellow-man  at  either  shoulder  and  at  his  back,  and 
didn't  object  to  a  little  honest  grime !  And  I  think  all 
this  genial  caressing  love  of  his  kind,  this  depth  and 
breath  of  human  sympathy,  are  patent  in  all  his  work. 

On  the  whole,  however,  he  came  to  prefer  for  society 
that  of  the  best  and  cleverest  of  his  own  class — those 
who  live  and  prevail  by  the  professional  exercise  of 
their  own  specially  trained  and  highly  educated  wits, 
the  skilled  workmen  of  the  brain  —  from  the  Lord 
Chief- Justice  of  England  downward — the  salt  of  the 
earth,  in  his  opinion  :  and  stuck  to  them. 

There  is  no  class  so  genial  and  sympathetic  as  ou>r 
oian,  in  the  long-run — even  if  it  be  but  the  criminal 
class !  none  where  the  welcome  is  likely  to  be  so  genu- 
ine and  sincere,  so  easy  to  win,  so  difficult  to  outstay, 
if  we  be  but  decently  pleasant  and  successful ;  none 
where  the  memory  of  us  will  be  kept  so  green  (if  we 
leave  any  memory  at  all !). 

So  Little  Billee  found  it  expedient,  when  he  wanted 
rest  and  play,  to  seek  them  at  the  houses  of  those 
whose  rest  and  play  were  like  his  own — little  halts  in 
a  seeming  happy  life-journey,  full  of  toil  and  strain 
and  endeavor ;  oases  of  sweet  water  and  cooling  shade, 
where  the  food  was  good  and  plentiful,  though  the 
tents  might  not  be  of  cloth  of  gold ;  where  the  talk 
was  of  something  more  to  his  taste  than  court  or  sport 
or  narrow  party  politics ;  the  new  beauty ;  the  com- 
ing match  of  the  season  ;  the  coming  ducal  conversion 
to  Rome;  the  last  elopement  in  high  life — the  next ! 


242 

and  where  the  music  was  that  of  the  greatest  music- 
makers  that  can  be,  who  found  rest  and  play  in  mak- 
ing better  music  for  love  than  they  ever  made  for 
hire — and  were  listened  to  as  they  should  be,  with 
understanding  and  religious  silence, and  all  the  fervent 
gratitude  they  deserved. 

There  were  several  such  houses  in  London  then— 
and  are  still — thank  Heaven !  And  Little  Billee  had 
his  little  billet  there — and  there  he  was  wont  to  drown 
himself  in  waves  of  lovely  sound,  or  streams  of  clever 
talk,  or  rivers  of  sweet  feminine  adulation,  seas! 
oceans! — a  somewhat  relaxing  bath! — and  forget  for 
a  while  his  everlasting  chronic  plague  of  heart-insensi- 
bility, which  no  doctor  could  explain  or  cure,  and  to 
which  he  was  becoming  gradually  resigned  —  as  one 
does  to  deafness  or  blindness  or  locoraotor  ataxia — 
for  it  had  lasted  nearly  five  years !  But  now  and 
again,  during  sleep,  and  in  a  blissful  dream,  the  lost 
power  of  loving  —  of  loving  mother,  sister,  friend- 
would  be  restored  to  him ;  just  as  with  a  blind  man 
who  sometimes  dreams  he  has  recovered  his  sight; 
and  the  joy  of  it  would  wake  him  to  the  sad  reality : 
till  he  got  to  know,  even  in  his  dream,  that  he  was 
only  dreaming,  after  all,  whenever  that  priceless  boon 
seemed  to  be  his  own  once  more — and  did  his  utmost 
not  to  wake.  And  these  were  nights  to  be  marked 
with  a  white  stone,  and  remembered  ! 

And  nowhere  was  he  happier  than  at  the  houses  of 
the  great  surgeons  and  physicians  who  interested 
themselves  in  his  strange  disease.  When  the  Little 
Billees  of  this  world  fall  ill,  the  great  surgeons  and 
physicians  (like  the  great  singers  and  musicians)  do 


243 

better  for  them,  out  of  mere  love  and  kindness,  than 
for  the  princes  of  the  earth,  who  pay  them  thousand- 
guinea  fees  and  load  them  with  honors. 

And  of  all  these  notable  London  houses  none  was 
pleasanter  than  that  of  Cornelys  the  great  sculptor, 
and  Little  Billee  was  such  a  favorite  in  that  house 
that  he  was  able  to  take  his  friends  Taffy  and  the 
Laird  there  the  very  day  they  came  to  London. 

First  of  all  they  dined  together  at  a  delightful  little 
Franco-Italian  pothouse  near  Leicester  Square,  where 
they  had  bouillabaisse  (imagine  the  Laird's  delight), 
and  spaghetti,  and  a  poulet  roti,  which  is  such  a  differ- 
ent affair  from  a  roast  fowl !  and  salad,  which  Taffy 
was  allowed  to  make  and  mix  himself;  and  they  all 
smoked  just  where  they  sat,  the  moment  they  had  swal- 
lowed their  food — as  had  been  their  way  in  the  good 
old  Paris  days. 

That  dinner  was  a  happy  one  for  Taffy  and  the 
Laird,  with  their  Little  Billee  apparently  unchanged 
— as  demonstrative,  as  genial,  and  caressing  as  ever, 
and  with  no  swagger  to  speak  of ;  and  with  so  many 
things  to  talk  about  that  were  new  to  them,  and  of 
such  delightful  interest !  They  also  had  much  to  say 
—but  they  didn't  say  very  much  about  Paris,  for  fear 
of  waking  up  Heaven  knows  what  sleeping  dogs ! 

And  every  now  and  again,  in  the  midst  of  all  this 
pleasant  foregathering  and  communion  of  long-parted 
friends,  the  pangs  of  Little  Billee's  miserable  mind- 
malady  would  shoot  through  him  like  poisoned  arrows. 

He  would  catch  himself  thinking  how  fat  and  fussy 
and  serious  about  trifles  Taffy  had  become  ;  and  what 


244 

a  shiftless,  feckless,  futile  duffer  was  the  Laird ;  and 
how  greedy  they  both  were,  and  how  red  and  coarse 
their  ears  and  gills  and  cheeks  grew  as  they  fed,  and 
how  shiny  their  faces ;  and  how  little  he  would  care, 
try  as  he  might,  if  they  both  fell  down  dead  under 
the  table !  And  this  would  make  him  behave  more 
caressingly  to  them,  more  genially  and  demonstrative- 
ly than  ever — for  he  knew  it  was  all  a  grewsome  phys- 
ical ailment  of  his  own,  which  he  could  no  more  help 
than  a  cataract  in  his  eye  ! 

Then,  catching  sight  of  his  own  face  and  form  in  a 
mirror,  he  would  curse  himself  for  a  puny,  misbegot- 
ten shrimp,  an  imp — an  abortion  —  no  bigger,  by  the 
side  of  the  herculean  Taffy  or  the  burly  Laird  of  Cock- 
pen,  than  six-pennorth  o'  half-pence :  a  wretched  little 
overrated  follower  of  a  poor  trivial  craft — a  mere  light 
amuser!  For  what  did  pictures  matter,  or  whether 
they  were  good  or  bad,  except  to  the  triflers  who 
painted  them,  the  dealers  who  sold  them,  the  idle,  un- 
educated, purse-proud  fools  who  bought  them  and 
stuck  them  up  on  their  walls  because  they  were  told ! 

And  he  felt  that  if  a  dynamite  shell  were  beneath 
the  table  where  they  sat,  and  its  fuse  were  smoking 
under  their  very  noses,  he  would  neither  wish  to  warn 
his  friends  nor  move  himself.  He  didn't  care  a  d ! 

And  all  this  made  him  so  lively  and  brilliant  in  his 
talk,  so  fascinating  and  droll  and  witty,  that  Taffy  and 
the  Laird  wondered  at  the  improvement  success  and 
the  experience  of  life  had  wrought  in  him,  and  mar- 
velled at  the  happiness  of  his  lot,  and  almost  found  it 
in  their  warm,  affectionate  hearts  to  feel  a  touch  of 
envy ! 


346 

Oddly  enough,  in  a  brief  flash  of  silence,  "  entre  la 
>oire  et  le  fromage,"  they  heard  a  foreigner  at  an  ad- 
joining table  (one  of  a  very  noisy  group)  exclaim : 
"  Mais  quand  je  vous  dis  que  jTai  entendue,  moi,  la 
Svengali!  et  memo  qu'elle  a  chante  I'lmpromptu  de 
Chopin  absolument  comme  si  c'etait  un  piano  qu'on 
jouait  1  voyons !  .  .  ." 

"Farceur!  la  bonne  blague!"  said  another  —  and 
then  the  conversation  became  so  noisily  general  it  was 
no  good  listening  any  more. 

"  Svengali !  ho\v  funny  that  name  should  turn  up ! 
I  wonder  what's  become  of  our  Svengali,  by-the-way  ?" 
observed  Taffy. 

"I  remember  his  playing  Chopin's  Impromptu," 
said  Little  Billee ;  "  what  a  singular  coincidence !" 

There  were  to  be  more  coincidences  that  night;  it 
never  rains  them  but  it  pours ! 

So  our  three  friends  finished  their  coffee  and  liq- 
ueured  up,  and  went  to  Cornelys's,  three  in  a  han- 
som— 

"Like  Mars, 
A-smokin'  their  poipes  and  cigyars." 

Sir  Louis  Cornelys,  as  everybody  knows,  lives  in  a 
palace  on  Campden  Hill,  a  house  of  many  windows ; 
and  whichever  window  he  looks  out  of,  he  sees  his 
own  garden  and  very  little  else.  In  spite  of  his  eighty 
years,  he  works  as  hard  as  ever,  and  his  hand  has  lost 
but  little  of  its  cunning.  But  he  no  longer  gives  those 
splendid  parties  that  made  him  almost  as  famous  a 
host  as  he  was  an  artist. 

When  his  beautiful  wife  died  he  shut  himself  up 


248 

from  the  world;  and  now  he  never  stirs  out  of  his 
house  and  grounds  except  to  fulfil  his  duties  at  the 
Royal  Academy  and  dine  once  a  year  with  the  Queen. 

It  was  very  different  in  the  early  sixties.  There  was 
no  pleasanter  or  more  festive  house  than  his  in  London, 
winter  or  summer — no  lordlier  host  than  he — no  more 
irresistible  hostesses  than  Lady  Comely 's  and  her  love- 
ly daughters ;  and  if  ever  music  had  a  right  to  call 
itself  divine,  it  was  there  you  heard  it  —  on  late  Sat- 
urday nights  during  the  London  season — when  the  for- 
eign birds  of  song  come  over  to  reap  their  harvest 
in  London  Town. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  most  brilliant  of  these  Satur- 
day nights  that  Taffy  and  the  Laird,  chaperoned  by 
Little  Billee,  made  their  debut  at  Mechelen  Lodge,  and 
were  received  at  the  door  of  the  immense  music-room 
by  a  tall,  powerful  man  with  splendid  eyes  and  a  gray 
beard,  and  a  small  velvet  cap  on  his  head — and  by  a 
Greek  matron  so  beautiful  and  stately  and  magnifi- 
cently attired  that  they  felt  inclined  to  sink  them  on 
their  bended  knees  as  in  the  presence  of  some  over- 
whelming Eastern  royalty — and  were  only  prevented 
from  doing  so,  perhaps,  by  the  simple,  sweet,  and  cord- 
ial graciousness  of  her  welcome. 

And  whom  should  they  be  shaking  hands  with  next 
but  Antony,  Lorrimer,  and  the  Greek  —  with  each  a 
beard  and  mustache  of  nearly  five  years'  growth ! 

But  they  had  no  time  for  much  exuberant  greeting, 
for  there  was  a  sudden  piano  crash  —  and  then  an 
immediate  silence,  as  though  for  pins  to  drop  —  and 
Signor  Giuglini  and  the  wondrous  maiden  Adelrna 
Patti  sang  the  Miserere  out  of  Signor  Verdi's  most 


240 

famous  opera — to  the  delight  of  all  but  a  few  very 
superior  ones  who  had  just  read  Mendelssohn's  letters 
(or  misread  them)  and  despised  Italian  music;  and 
thought  cheaply  of  "  mere  virtuosity,"  either  vocal  or 
instrumental. 

When  this  was  over,  Little  Billee  pointed  out  all  the 
lions  to  his  friends — from  the  Prime-Minister  down  to 
the  present  scribe — who  was  right  glad  to  meet  them 
again  and  talk  of  auld  lang  syne,  and  present  them  to 
the  daughters  of  the  house  and  other  charming  ladies. 

Then  Roucouly,  the  great  French  barytone,  sang 
Durien's  favorite  song, 

"Plaisir  d'amour  ne  dure  qu'un  moment; 
Chagrin  d'amour  dure  toute  la  vie.  ..." 

with  quite  a  little  drawing-room  voice  —  but  quite  as 
divinely  as  he  had  sung  "  Noel,  noe'l,"  at  the  Madeleine 
in  full  blast  one  certain  Christmas  Eve  our  three  friends 
remembered  well. 

Then  there  was  a  violin  solo  by  young  Joachim, 
then  as  now  the  greatest  violinist  of  his  time  ;  and  a 
solo  on  the  piano-forte  by  Madame  Schumann,  his 
only  peeress !  and  these  came  as  a  wholesome  check  to 
the  levity  of  those  for  whom  all  music  is  but  an  agree- 
able pastime,  a  mere  emotional  delight,  in  which  the 
intellect  has  no  part ;  and  also  as  a  well-deserved  hu- 
miliation to  all  virtuosi  who  play  so  charmingly  that 
they  make  their  listeners  forget  the  master  who  in- 
vented the  music  in  the  lesser  master  who  interprets  it ! 

For  these  two  —  man  and  woman  —  the  highest  of 
their  kind,  never  let  you  forget  it  was  Sebastian  Bach 


250 

they  were  playing — playing  in  absolute  perfection,  in 
absolute  forgetfulness  of  themselves — so  that  if  you 
weren't  up  to  Bach,  you  didn't  have  a  very  good 
time ! 

But  if  you  were  (or  wished  it  to  be  understood  or 
thought  you  were),  you  seized  your  opportunity  and 
you  scored  ;  and  by  the  earnestness  of  your  rapt  and 
tranced  immobility,  and  the  stony,  gorgon-like  inten- 
sity of  your  gaze,  you  rebuked  the  frivolous — as  you 
had  rebuked  them  before  by  the  listlessness  and  care- 
lessness of  your  bored  resignation  to  the  Signorina 
Patti's  trills  and  fioritures,  or  M.  Roucouly's  pretty 
little  French  mannerisms. 

And  what  added  so  much  to  the  charm  of  this  de- 
lightful concert  was  that  the  guests  were  not  packed 
together  sardinewise,  as  they  are  at  most  concerts; 
they  were  comparatively  few  and  well  chosen,  and 
could  get  up  and  walk  about  and  talk  to  their  friends 
between  the  pieces,  and  wander  off  into  other  rooms 
and  look  at  endless  beautiful  things,  and  stroll  in  the 
lovely  grounds,  by  moon  or  star  or  Chinese  -  lantern 
light. 

And  there  the  frivolous  could  sit  and  chat  and  laugh 
and  flirt  when  Bach  was  being  played  inside ;  and  the 
earnest  wander  up  and  down  together  in  soul-commun- 
ion, through  darkened  walks  and  groves  and  alleys 
where  the  sound  of  French  or  Italian  warblings  could 
not  reach  them,  and  talk  in  earnest  tones  of  the  great 
Zola,  or  Guy  de  Maupassant  and  Pierre  Loti,  and  ex- 
ult in  beautiful  English  over  the  inferiority  of  English 
literature,  English  art,  English  music,  English  every- 
thing else. 


251 

For  these  high-minded  ones  who  can  only  bear  the 
sight  of  classical  pictures  and  the  sound  of  classical 
music  do  not  necessarily  read  classical  books  in  any 
language — no  Shakespeares  or  Dantes  or  Holieres  or 
Goethes  for  them.  They  know  a  trick  worth  two  of 
that! 

And  the  mere  fact  that  these  three  immortal 
French  writers  of  light  books  I  have  just  named  had 
never  been  heard  of  at  this  particular  period  doesn't 
very  much  matter;  they  had  cognate  predecessors 
whose  names  I  happen  to  forget.  Any  stick  will  do 
to  beat  a  dog  with,  and  history  is  always  repeating 
itself. 

Feydeau,  or  Flaubert,  let  us  say — or  for  those  who 
don't  know  French  and  cultivate  an  innocent  mind, 
Miss  Austen  (for  to  be  dead  and  buried  is  almost  as 
good  as  to  be  French  and  immoral!) — and  Sebastian 
Bach,  and  Sandro  Botticelli — that  all  the  arts  should 
be  represented.  These  names  are  rather  discrepant, 
but  they  made  very  good  sticks  for  dog-beating ;  and 
with  a  thorough  knowledge  and  appreciation  of  these 
(or  the  semblance  thereof),  you  were  well  equipped  in 
those  days  to  hold  your  own  among  the  elect  of  in- 
tellectual London  circles,  and  snub  the  philistine  to 
rights. 

Then,  very  late,  a  tall,  good-looking,  swarthy  for- 
eigner came  in,  with  a  roll  of  music  in  his  hands,  and 
his  entrance  made  quite  a  stir;  you  heard  all  round, 
"  Here's  Glorioli,"  or  "  Ecco  Glorioli,"  or  "  Voici  Glo- 
rioli," till  Glorioli  got  on  your  nerves.  And  beauti- 
ful ladies,  ambassadresses,  female  celebrities  of  all 
kinds,  fluttered  up  to  him  and  cajoled  and  fawned ;— 


252 

as  Svengali  would  have  said,  "  Prinzessen,  Comtessen, 
Serene  English  Altessen !"  •  —  and  they  soon  forgot 
their  Highness  and  their  Serenity ! 

For  with  very  little  pressing  Glorioli  stood  up  on 
the  platform,  with  his  accompanist  by  his  side  at  the 
piano,  and  in  his  hands  a  sheet  of  music,  at  which  he 
never  looked.  He  looked  at  the  beautiful  ladies,  and 
ogled  and  smiled ;  and  from  his  scarcely  parted,  moist, 
thick,  bearded  lips,  which  he  always  licked  before  sing- 
ing, there  issued  the  most  ravishing  sounds  that  had 
ever  been  heard  from  throat  of  man  or  woman  or  boy ! 
He  could  sing  both  high  and  low  and  soft  and  loud, 
and  the  frivolous  were  bewitched,  as  was  only  to 
be  expected;  but  even  the  earnestest  of  all,  caught, 
surprised,  rapt,  astounded,  shaken,  tickled,  teased, 
harrowed,  tortured,  tantalized,  aggravated,  seduced, 
demoralized,  corrupted  into  naturalness,  forgot  to  dis- 
semble their  delight. 

And  Sebastian  Bach  (the  especially  adored  of  all 
really  great  musicians,  and  also,  alas!  of  many  prig- 
gish outsiders  who  don't  know  a  single  note  and  can't 
remember  a  single  tune)  was  well  forgotten  for  the 
night ;  and  who  were  more  enthusiastic  than  the  two 
great  players  who  had  been  playing  Bach  that  even- 
ing? For  these,  at  all  events,  were  broad  and  catho- 
lic and  sincere,  and  knew  what  was  beautiful,  what- 
ever its  kind. 

It  was  but  a  simple  little  song  that  Glorioli  sang,  as 
light  and  pretty  as  it  could  well  be,  almost  worthy  of 
the  words  it  was  written  to,  and  the  words  are  De 
Musset's;  and  I  love  them  so  much  I  cannot  resist 
the  temptation  of  setting  them  down  here,  for  the 


254 

mere  sensuous  delight  of  writing  them,  as  though  I 
had  just  composed  them  myself : 

"Bonjour,  Suzon,  ma  fleur  des  bois  1 

Es-tu  toujours  la  plus  jolie  ? 
Je  reviens,  tel  que  tu  me  vcis, 

D'un  grand  voyage  en  Italie  I 
Du  paradis  j'ai  fait  le  tour — 
J'ai  fait  des  vers — j'ai  fait  1'amour.  .  .  . 
Mais  que  t'importe  1 
Mais  que  t'importe ! 
Je  passe  devant  ta  maison : 
Ouvre  ta  porte  I 
Ouvre  ta  porte ! 
Bonjour,  Suzon! 

"  Je  t'ai  vue  au  temps  des  lilas. 

Ton  cccur  joyeux  venuit  d'eclore, 
Et  tu  disais :  '  je  ne  veux  pas, 

Je  ne  veux  pas  qu'on  m'aime  encore.' 
Qu'as-tu  fait  depuis  mon  depart  ? 
Qui  part  trop  tot  revient  trop  tard. 
Mais  que  m'importe  ? 
Mais  que  m'importe  ? 
Je  passe  devant  ta  maison : 
Ouvre  ta  porte  ! 
Ouvre  ta  porte  ! 
Bonjour,  Suzon!" 

And  when  it  began,  and  while  it  lasted,  and  after  it 
was  over,  one  felt  really  sorry  for  all  the  other  sing- 
ers. And  nobody  sang  any  more  that  night ;  for  Glo- 
rioli  was  tired,  and  wouldn't  sing  again,  and  none 
were  bold  enough  or  disinterested  enough  to  sing 
after  him. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  remember  that  meteoric 
bird   of  song,  who,  though  a  mere  amateur,  would 


255 

condescend  to  sing  for  a  hundred  guineas  in  the 
saloons  of  the  great  (as  Monsieur  Jourdain  sold  cloth) ; 
who  would  sing  still  better  for  love  and  glory  in  the 
Studios  of  his  friends. 

For  Glorioli  —  the  biggest,  handsomest,  and  most 
distinguished-looking  Jew  that  ever  was — one  of  the 
Sephardim  (one  of  the  Seraphim !) — hailed  from  Spain, 
where  he  was  junior  partner  in  the  great  firm  of 
Morales,  Perales,  Gonzales  &  Glorioli,  wine -mer- 
chants, Malaga.  He  travelled  for  his  own  firm;  his 
wine  was  good,  and  he  sold  much  of  it  in  England. 
But  his  voice  would  bring  him  far  more  gold  in  the 
month  he  spent  here;  for  his  wines  have  been 
equalled  —  even  surpassed  —  but  there  was  no  voice 
like  his  anywhere  in  the  world,  and  no  more  fin- 
ished singer. 

Anyhow,  his  voice  got  into  Little  Billee's  head  more 
than  any  wine,  and  the  boy  could  talk  of  nothing  else 
for  days  and  weeks ;  and  was  so  exuberant  in  his  ex- 
pressions of  delight  and  gratitude  that  the  great  sing- 
er took  a  real  fancy  to  him  (especially  when  he  was 
told  that  this  fervent  boyish  admirer  was  one  of  the 
greatest  of  English  painters) ;  and  as  a  mark  of  his 
esteem,  privately  confided  to  him  after  supper  that 
every  century  two  human  nightingales  were  born- 
only  two !  a  male  and  a  female ;  and  that  he,  Glo- 
rioli, was  the  representative  "male  rossignol  of  this 
soi-disant  dix-neuvieme  siecle." 

"  I  can  well  believe  that !  And  the  female,  your 
mate  that  should  be — la  rossignolle,  if  there  is  such  a 
word  ?"  inquired  Little  Billee. 

"  Ah !  mon  ami  ...  it  was  Alboni   till  la  petite 


256 

Adelina  Patti  came  out  a  year  or  two  ago ;  and  no\v 
it  is  la  Svengali" 

"La  Svengali?" 

"Oui,  mon  fy!  You  will  hear  her  some  day  —  et 
vous  m'en  direz  des  nouvelles  1" 

"  Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  she's  got  a  bet- 
ter voice  than  Madame  Alboni  ?" 

"Mon  ami,  ah  apple  is  an  excellent  thing  —  until 
you  have  tried  a  peach !  Her  voice  to  that  of  Alboni 
is  as  a  peach  to  an  apple  —  I  give  you  my  word  of 
honor !  but  bah !  the  voice  is  a  detail.  It's  what  she 
does  with  it — it's  incredible !  it  gives  one  cold  all  down 
the  back !  it  drives  you  mad !  it  makes  you  weep  hot 
tears  by  the  spoonful !  Ah  !  the  tear,  mon  fy !  tenez ! 
I  can  draw  everything  but  that!  Qa  n'est  pas  dans 
mes  cordes!  /can  only  madden  with  love!  But  la 
Svengali!  .  .  .  And  then,  in  the  middle  of  it  all, 
prrrout !  .  .  .  she  makes  you  laugh !  Ah  !  le  beau  rire ! 
faire  rire  avec  des  larmes  plein  les  yeux — voila  qui  me 
passe!  .  .  .  Mon  ami,  when  I  heard  her  it  made  me 
swear  that  even  7  would  never  try  to  sing  any  more 
—it  seemed  too  absurd !  and  I  kept  my  word  for  a 
month  at  least— and  you  know,  je  sais  ce  que  je  vaux, 
moi !" 

"  You  are  talking  of  la  Svengali,  I  bet,"  said  Signor 
Spartia. 

"  Oui,  parbleu  !     You  have  heard  her  ?" 

"  Yes — at  Vienna  last  winter,"  rejoined  the  great- 
est singing-master  in  the  world.  "  J'en  suis  fou !  he- 
las !  I  thought  /  could  teach  a  woman  how  to  sing 
till  I  heard  that  blackguard  Svengali's  pupil.  He  has 
married  her.  they  say  !" 


A   HUMAN    NIGHTINGALE 


258 

"That  blackguard  Svengali!"  exclaimed  Little  Bil- 
lee  .  .  .  "why,  that  must  be  a  Svengali  I  knew  in 
Paris — a  famous  pianist !  a  friend  of  mine !" 

"That's  the  man!  also  une  fameuse  crapule  (sauf 
vot'  respect) ;  his  real  name  is  Adler ;  his  mother  was 
a  Polish  singer;  and  he  was  a  pupil  at  the  Leipsic 
Conservatorio.  But  he's  an  immense  artist,  and  a 
great  singing-master,  to  teach  a  woman  like  that !  and 
such  a  woman!  belle  comme  un  ange  —  mais  bete 
comme  un  pot.  I  tried  to  talk  to  her — all  she  can  say 
is  '  ja  wohl,'  or  '  doch,'  or  '  nein,'  or  '  soh ' !  not  a  word 
of  English  or  French  or  Italian,  though  she  sings 
them,  oh !  but  divinely !  It  is  '  il  bel  canto'  come 
back  to  the  world  after  a  hundred  years.  .  .  ." 

"  But  what  voice  is  it  ?"  asked  Little  Billee. 

"  Every  voice  a  mortal  woman  can  have — three  oc- 
taves— four !  and  of  such  a  quality  that  people  who 
can't  tell  one  tune  from  another  cry  with  pleasure  at 
the  mere  sound  of  it  directly  they  hear  her ;  just  like 
anybody  else.  Everything  that  Paganini  could  do 
with  his  violin  she  does  with  her  voice — only  better 
— and  what  a  voice!  un  vrai  baume!" 

"Now  I  don't  mind  petting  zat  you  are  schbeaking 
of  la  Sfencali,"  said  Herr  Kreutzer,  the  famous  com- 
poser, joining  in.  "  Quelle  merfeille,  hein  ?  I  heard 
her  in  St.  Betersburg,  at  ze  Yinter  Balace.  Ze  vomen 
all  vent  mat,  and  pulled  off  zeir  bearls  and  tiamonts 
and  kave  zem  to  her — vent  town  on  zeir  knees  and 
gried  and  gissed  her  hants.  She  tit  not  say  vun  vort ! 
She  tit  not  efen  schmile!  Ze  men  schnifelled  in  ze 
gorners,  and  looked  at  ze  bictures,  and  tissempled— 
efen  I,  Johann  Kreutzer !  efen  ze  Emperor !'' 


259 

"  You're  joking,"1  said  Little  Billee. 

"  My  vrent,  I  neffer  choke  ven  I  talk  apout  zinging. 
You  vill  hear  her  zum  ta,y  yourzellof,  and  you  vill 
acree  viz  ine  zat  zere  are  two  classes  of  beoble  who 
zing.  In  ze  vun  class,  la  Sfencali ;  in  ze  ozzer,  all  ze 
ozzer  zingers  !" 

"  And  does  she  sing  good  music  ?" 

"  I  ton't  know.  All  music  is  koot  ven  she  zings  it. 
I  forket  ze  zong  ;  I  can  only  sink  of  ze  zinger.  Any 
koot  zinger  can  zing  a  peautiful  zong  and  kif  bleasure, 
I  zubboce !  But  I  voot  zooner  hear  la  Sfencali  zing  a 
scale  zap.  any  potty  else  zing  ze  most  peautiful  zong  in 
ze  vorldt — efen  vun  of  my  own  !  Zat  is  berhaps  how 
zung  ze  crate  Italian  zingers  of  ze  last  century.  It  vas 
a  lost  art,  and  she  has  found  it ;  and  she  must  haf  pecun 
to  zing  pefore  she  pecan  to  schpeak — or  else  she  voot 
not  hat'  hat  ze  time  to  learn  all  zat  she  knows,  for  she 
is  not  yet  zirty  !  She  zings  in  Paris  in  Ogdoper,  Gott 
sei  dank  !  and  gums  here  after  Christmas  to  zing  at 
Trury  Lane.  Chullien  kifs  her  ten  sousand  bounts!" 

"  I  wonder,  now !  Why,  that  must  be  the  woman 
I  heard  at  Warsaw  two  years  ago — or  three,"  said 
young  Lord  Willow.  "  It  was  at  Count  Siloszech's. 
He'd  heard  her  sing  in  the  streets,  with  a  tall,  black- 
bearded  ruffian,  who  accompanied  her  on  a  guitar, 
and  a  little  fiddling  gypsy  fellow.  She  was  a  hand- 
some woman,  with  hair  down  to  her  knees,  but  stupid 
as  an  owl.  She  sang  at  Siloszech's,  and  all  the  fel- 
lows went  mad  and  gave  her  their  watches  and  dia- 
mond studs  and  gold  scarf-pins.  By  gad !  I  never 
heard  or  saw  anything  like  it.  I  don't  know  much 
about  music  myself  —  couldn't  tell  '  God  Save  the 


260 

Queen '  from  '  Pop  Goes  the  Weasel,'  if  the  people 
didn't  get  up  and  stand  and  take  their  hats  off;  but  I 
was  as  mad  as  the  rest — why,  I  gave  her  a  little  Ger- 
man silver  vinaigrette  I'd  just  bought  for  my  wife; 
hanged  if  I  didn't — and  I  was  only  just  married,  you 
know !  It's  the  peculiar  twang  of  her  voice,  I  sup- 
pose !" 

And  hearing  all  this,  Little  Billee  made  up  his 
mind  that  life  had  still  something  in  store  for  him, 
since  he  would  some  day  hear  la  Svengali.  Anyhow, 
he  wouldn't  shoot  himself  till  then  I 

Thus  the  night  wore  itself  away.  The  Prmzessen, 
Comtessen,  and  Serene  English  Altessen  (and  other 
ladies  of  less  exalted  rank)  departed  home  in  cabs  and 
carriages ;  and  hostess  and  daughters  went  to  bed. 
Late  sitters  of  the  ruder  sex  supped  again,  and  smoked 
and  chatted  and  listened  to  comic  songs  and  recita- 
tions by  celebrated  actors.  Noble  dukes  hobnobbed 
with  low  comedians ;  world-famous  painters  and  sculp- 
tors sat  at  the  feet  of  Hebrew  capitalists  and  aitchless 
millionaires.  Judges,  cabinet  ministers,  eminent  phy- 
sicians, and  warriors  and  philosophers  saw  Sunday 
morning  steal  over  Campden  Hill  and  through  the 
many  windows  of  Mechelen  Lodge,  and  listened  to  the 
pipe  of  half-awakened  birds,  and  srnelled  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  dark  summer  dawn.  And  as  Taffy  and 
the  Laird  walked  home  to  the  Old  Hummums  by  day- 
light, they  felt  that  last  night  was  ages  ago,  and  that 
since  then  they  had  foregathered  with  "  much  there 
was  of  the  best  in  London."  And  then  they  reflected 
that  "much  there  was  of  the  best  in  London"  were 


261 

still  strangers  to  them — except  by  reputation — for 
there  had  not  been  time  for  many  introductions :  and 
this  had  made  them  feel  a  little  out  of  it ;  and  they 
found  they  hadn't  had  such  a  very  good  time  after 
all.  And  there  were  no  cabs.  And  they  were  tired, 
and  their  boots  were  tight. 

And  the  last  they  had  seen  of  Little  Billee  before 
leaving  was  a  glimpse  of  their  old  friend  in  a  corner 
of  Lady  Cornelys's  boudoir,  gravely  playing  cup-and- 
ball  with  Fred  Walker  for  sixpences— both  so  rapt  in 
the  game  that  they  were  unconscious  of  anything  else, 
and  both  playing  so  well  (with  either  hand)  that  they 
might  have  been  professional  champions ! 

And  that  saturnine  young  sawbones,  Jakes  Talboys 
(now  Sir  Jakes,  and  one  of  the  most  genial  of  Her 
Majesty's  physicians),  who  sometimes  after  supper  and 
champagne  was  given  to  thoughtful,  sympathetic,  and 
acute  observation  of  his  fellow-men,  remarked  to  the 
Laird  in  a  whisper  that  was  almost  convivial :  "  Rather 
an  enviable  pair !  Their  united  ages  amount  to  forty- 
eight  or  so,  their  united  weights  to  about  fifteen  stone, 
and  they  couldn't  carry  you  or  me  between  them. 
But  if  you  were  to  roll  all  the  other  brains  that  have 
been  under  this  roof  to-night  into  one,  you  wouldn't 
reach  the  sum  of  their  united  genius.  ...  I  wonder 
which  of  the  two  is  the  most  unhappy !" 


The  season  over,  the  song-birds  flown,  summer  on 

the  wane,  his  picture,  the  "  Moon-Dial,"  sent  to  Moses 
Lyon's  (the  picture-dealer  in  Conduit  Street),  Little 

18 


282 

Billee  felt  the  time  had  come  to  go  and  see  his  mother 
and  sister  in  Devonshire,  and  make  the  sun  shine 
twice  as  brightly  for  them  during  a  month  or  so,  and 
the  dew  fall  softer! 

So  one  fine  August  morning  found  him  at  the  Great 
Western  Station — the  nicest  station  in  all  London,  I 
think — except  the  stations  that  book  you  to  France 
and  far  away. 

It  always  seems  so  pleasant  to  be  going  west !  Lit- 
tle Billee  loved  that  station,  and  often  went  there  for 
a  mere  stroll,  to  watch  the  people  starting  on  their 
westward  way,  following  the  sun  towards  Heaven 
knows  what  joys  or  sorrows,  and  envy  them  their 
sorrows  or  their  joys — any  sorrows  or  joys  that  were 
not  merely  physical,  like  a  chocolate  drop  or  a  pretty 
tune,  a  bad  smell  or  a  toothache. 

And  as  he  took  a  seat  in  a  second-class  carriage  (it 
would  be  third  in  these  democratic  days),  south  corner, 
back  to  the  engine,  with  Silas  Marnier,  and  Darwin's 
Origin  of  Species  (which  he  was  reading  for  the  third 
time),  and  Punch,  and  other  literature  of  a  lighter 
kind,  to  beguile  him  on  his  journey,  he  felt  rather  bit- 
terly how  happy  he  could  be  if  the  little  spot,  or  knot, 
or  blot,  or  clot  which  paralyzed  that  convolution  of 
his  brain  where  he  kept  his  affections  could  but  be 
conjured  away ! 

The  dearest  mother,  the  dearest  sister  in  the  world, 
in  the  dearest  little  sea-side  village  (or  town)  that  ever 
was!  and  other  dear  people — especially  Alice,  sweet 
Alice  with  hair  so  brown,  his  sister's  friend,  the  simple, 
pure,  and  pious  maiden  of  his  boyish  dreams :  and 
himself,  but  for  that  wretched  little  kill-joy  cerebral 


CUP-AMD-BALI. 


264 

occlusion,  as  sound,  as  healthy,  as  full  of  life  and  en- 
ergy as  he  had  ever  been  ! 

And  when  he  wasn't  reading  Silax  Mamer^  or  look- 
ing out  of  window  at  the  flying  landscape,  and  watch- 
ing it  revolve  round  its  middle  distance  (as  it  always 
seems  to  do),  he  was  sympathetically  taking  stock  of 
his  fellow  -  passengers,  and  mildly  envying  them,  one 
after  another,  indiscriminately ! 

A  fat,  old,  wheezy  philistine,  with  a  bulbous  nose 
and  only  one  eye,  who  had  a  plain,  sickly  daughter,  to 
whom  he  seemed  devoted,  body  and  soul ;  an  old  lady, 
who  still  wept  furtively  at  recollections  of  the  parting 
with  her  grandchildren,  which  had  taken  place  at  the 
station  (they  had  borne  up  wonderfully,  as  grandchil- 
dren do) ;  a  consumptive  curate,  on  the  opposite  cor- 
ner seat  by  the  window,  whose  tender,  anxious  wife 
(sitting  by  his  side)  seemed  to  have  no  thoughts  in  the 
whole  world  but  for  him ;  and  her  patient  eyes  were 
his  stars  of  consolation,  since  he  turned  to  look  into 
them  almost  every  minute,  and  always  seemed  a  little 
the  happier  for  doing  so.  There  is  no  better  star- 
gazing than  that ! 

So  Little  Billee  gave  her  up  his  corner  seat,  that  the 
poor  sufferer  might  have  those  stars  where  he  could 
look  into  them  comfortably  without  turning  his  head. 

Indeed  (as  was  his  wont  with  everybody),  Little  Bil- 
lee made  himself  useful  and  pleasant  to  his  fellow- 
travellers  in  many  ways  —  so  man}'  that  long  before 
they  had  reached  their  respective  journeys'  ends  they 
had  almost  grown  to  love  him  as  an  old  friend,  and 
longed  to  know  who  this  singularly  attractive  and 
brilliant  youth,  this  genial,  dainty,  benevolent  little 


265 

princekin  could  possibly  be,  who  was  dressed  so  fash- 
ionably, and  yet  went  second  class,  and  took  such  kind 
thought  of  others ;  and  they  wondered  at  the  happi- 
ness that  must  be  his  at  merely  being  alive,  and  told 
him  more  of  their  troubles  in  six  hours  than  they  told 
many  an  old  friend  in  a  year. 

But  he  told  them  nothing  about  himself — that  self 
he  was  so  sick  of — and  left  them  to  wonder. 

And  at  his  own  journey's  end,  the  farthest  end  of 
all,  he  found  his  mother  and  sister  waiting  for  him, 
in  a  beautiful  little  pony-carriage — his  last  gift— and 
with  them  sweet  Alice,  and  in  her  eyes,  for  one  brief 
moment,  that  unconscious  look  of  love  surprised  which 
is  not  to  be  forgotten  for  years  and  years  and  years — 
which  can  only  be  seen  by  the  eyes  that  meet  it,  and 
which,  for  the  time  it  lasts  (just  a  flash),  makes  all 
women's  eyes  look  exactly  the  same  (I'm  told) :  and 
it  seemed  to  Little  Billee  that,  for  the  twentieth  part 
of  a  second,  Alice  had  looked  at  him  with  Trilby's 
eyes — or  his  mother's,  when  that  he  was  a  little  tiny 
boy. 

It  all  but  gave  him  the  thrill  he  thirsted  for !  An- 
other twentieth  part  of  a  second,  perhaps,  and  his 
brain  -  trouble  would  have  melted  away ;  and  Little 
Billee  would  have  come  into  his  own  again — the  king- 
dom of  love ! 

A  beautiful  human  eye !  Any  beautiful  eye — a 
dog's,  a  deer's,  a  donkey's,  an  owl's  even !  To  think 
of  all  that  it  can  look,  and  all  that  it  can  see  !  all  that 
it  can  even  seem,  sometimes!  What  a  prince  among 
gems  !  what  a  star  ! 

But  a  beautiful  eye  that  lets  the  broad  white  light 


266 

of  infinite  space  (so  bewildering  and  garish  and  dif- 
fused) into  one  pure  virgin  heart,  to  be  filtered  there! 
and  lets  it  out  again,  duly  warmed,  softened,  concen- 
trated, sublimated,  focussed  to  a  point  as  in  a  precious 
stone,  that  it  may  shed  itself  (a  love-laden  effulgence) 
into  some  stray  fellow-heart  close  by — through  pupil 
and  iris,  entre  quatre-z-yeux — the  very  elixir  of  life  ! 

Alas!  that  such  a  crown-jewel  should  ever  lose  its 
lustre  and  go  blind  ! 

Not  so  blind  or  dim,  however,  but  it  can  still  see 
well  enough  to  look  before  and  after,  and  inward  and 
upward,  and  drown  itself  in  tears,  and  yet  not  die! 
And  that's  the  dreadful  pity  of  it.  And  this  is  a  quite 
uncalled-for  digression ;  and  I  can't  think  why  I  should 
have  gone  out  of  my  way  (at  considerable  pains)  to 
invent  it !  In  fact — 

"  Of  this  here  song,  should  I  be  axed  the  reason  for  to  show, 
I  don't  exactly  know,  I  don't  exactly  know  ! 
But  all  my  fancy  dwells  upon  Nancy."  .  .  . 

"  How  pretty  Alice  has  grown,  mother!  quite  love- 
ly, I  think!  and  so  nice;  but  she  was  always  as  nice 
as  she  could  be  !" 

So  observed  Little  Billee  to  his  mother  that  even- 
ing as  they  sat  in  the  garden  and  watched  the  cres- 
cent moon  sink  to  the  Atlantic. 

"  Ah  !  my  darling  Willie !  If  you  could  only  guess 
how  happy  you  would  make  your  poor  old  mammy 
by  growing  fond  of  Alice.  .  .  And  Blanche,  too! 
what  a  joy  for  her  /" 

"  Good  heavens !  mother.  .  .  .  Alice  is  not  for  the 
likes  of  in?  !  She's  for  some  splendid  young  Devon 


267 


squire,  six  foot  high,  and  acred  and  whiskered  within 
an  inch  of  his  life !  .  .  ." 

"  Ah,  my  darling  Willie  !  you  are  not  of  those  who 
ask  for  love  in  vain.  ...  If  you  only  knew  how  she 
believes  in  you  !     She  al- 
most beats  your  poor  old 
mammy  at  that  /" 

And  that  night  he 
dreamed  of  Alice  —  that 
he  loved  her  as  a  sweet 
good  woman  should  be 
loved ;  and  knew,  even  in 
his  dream,  that  it  was  but 
a  dream  ;  but,  oh !  it  was 
good !  and  he  managed 
not  to  wake ;  and  it  was 
a  night  to  be  marked  with 
a  white  stone !  And  (still 
in  his  dream)  she  had 
kissed  him,  and  healed 

him  of  his  brain-trouble  forever.  But  when  he  woke 
next  morning,  alas !  his  brain  -  trouble  was  with  him 
still,  and  he  felt  that  no  dream  kiss  would  ever  cure  it 
— nothing  but  a  real  kiss  from  Alice's  own  pure  lips ! 

And  he  rose  thinking  of  Alice,  and  dressed  and 
breakfasted  thinking  of  her  —  and  how  fair  she  was, 
and  how  innocent,  and  how  well  and  carefully  trained 
up  the  way  she  should  go — the  beau  ideal  of  a  wife. . . . 
Could  she  possibly  care  for  a  shrimp  like  himself  2 

For  in  his  love  of  outward  form  he  could  not  under- 
stand that  any  woman  who  had  eyes  to  see  should 
ever  quite  condone  the  signs  of  physical  weakness  in 


SWEET   ALICE 


288 

man,  in  favor  of  any  mental  gifts  or  graces  whatso- 
ever. 

Little  Greek  that  he  was,  he  worshipped  the  athlete, 
and  opined  that  all  women  without  exception — all 
English  women  especially  —  must  see  with  the  same 
eyes  as  himself. 

lie  had  once  been  vain  and  weak  enough  to  believe 
in  Trilby's  love  (with  a  Taffy  standing  by — a  careless, 
unsusceptible  Taffy,  who  was  like  unto  the  gods  of 
Olympus!) — and  Trilby  had  given  him  up  at  a  word, 
a  hint — for  all  his  frantic  clinging. 

She  would  not  have  given  up  Taffy,  pour  si  pen, 
had  Taffy  but  lifted  a  little  finger !  It  is  always  "  just 
whistle,  and  I'll  come  to  you,  my  lad  !"  with  the  likes 
of  Taffy ...  but  Taffy  hadn't  even  whistled !  Yet 
still  he  kept  thinking  of  Alice — and  he  felt  he  couldn't 
think  of  her  well  enough  till  he  went  out  for  a  stroll 
by  himself  on  a  sheep-trimmed  down.  So  he  took 
his  pipe  and  his  Darwin,  and  out  he  strolled  into  the 
early  sunshine  —  up  the  green  Red  Lane,  past  the 
pretty  church,  Alice's  father's  church  —  and  there,  at 
the  gate,  patiently  waiting  for  his  mistress,  sat  Alice's 
dog — an  old  friend  of  his,  whose  welcome  was  a  very 
warm  one. 

Little  Billee  thought  of  Thackeray's  lovely  poem  in 
Pendennis  : 

"She  comes — she's  here — she's  past! 
May  heaven  go  with  her  I ..." 

Then  he  and  the  dog  went  on  together  to  a  little 
bench  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff — within  sight  of  Alice's 


269 

bedroom  window.  It  was  called  "the  Honeymoon- 
ers'  Bench." 

"That  look  — that  look  — that  look!  Ah  — but 
Trilby  had  looked  like  that,  too!  And  there  am 
many  Taff^s  in  Devon  !" 

He  sat  himself  down  and  smoked  and  gazed  at  the 
sea  below,  which  the  sun  (still  in  the  east)  had  not 
yet  filled  with  glare  and  robbed  of  the  lovely  sap- 
phire-blue, shot  with  purple  and  dark  green,  that 
comes  over  it  now  and  again  of  a  morning  on  that 
most  beautiful  coast. 

There  was  a  fresh  breeze  from  the  west,  and  the 
long,  slow  billows  broke  into  creamier  foam  than  ever, 
which  reflected  itself  as  a  tender  white  gleam  in  the 
blue  concavities  of  their  shining  shoreward  curves  as 
they  came  rolling  in.  The  sky  was  all  of  turquoise 
but  for  the  smoke  of  a  distant  steamer  —  a  long  thin 
horizontal  streak  of  dun — and  there  were  little  brown 
or  white  sails  here  and  there,  dotting ;  and  the  stately 
ships  went  on.  .  .  . 

Little  Billee  tried  hard  to  feel  all  this  beauty  with 
his  heart  as  well  as  his  brain — as  he  had  so  often 
done  when  a  boy  —  and  cursed  his  insensibility  out 
loud  for  at  least  the  thousand  and  first  time. 

Why  couldn't  these  waves  of  air  and  water  be 
turned  into  equivalent  waves  of  sound,  that  he  might 
feel  them  through  the  only  channel  that  reached  his 
emotions!  That  one  joy  was  still  left  to  him  —  but, 
alas !  alas !  he  was  only  a  painter  of  pictures — and  not 
a  maker  of  music  ! 

He  recited  "Break,  break,  break,"  to  Alice's  dog, 
who  loved  him,  and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  sapi- 


27U 

ent,  affectionate  eyes  —  and  whose  name,  like  that  of 
so  many  dogs  in  fiction  and  so  few  in  fact,  was  simply 
Tray.  For  Little  Billee  was  much  given  to  mono- 
logues out  loud,  and  profuse  quotations  from  his  fa- 
vorite bards. 

Everybody  quoted  that  particular  poem  either  men- 
tally or  aloud  when  they  sat  on  that  particular  bench 
—except  a  few  old-fashioned  people,  who  still  said, 

"  Roll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  roll  I" 

or  people  of  the  very  highest  culture,  who  only  quoted 
the  nascent  (and  crescent)  Robert  Browning ;  or  peo- 
ple of  no  culture  at  all,  who  simply  held  their  tongues 
—and  only  felt  the  more  ! 

Tray  listened  silently. 

"  Ah,  Tray,  the  best  thing  but  one  to  do  with  the 
sea  is  to  paint  it.  The  next  best  thing  to  that  is  to 
bathe  in  it.  The  best  of  all  is  to  lie  asleep  at  the  bot- 
tom. How  would  you  like  that  ? 

"'And  on  thy  ribs  the  limpet  sticks, 

And  in  thy  heart  the  scrawl  shall  play.  .  .  .'" 

Tray's  tail  became  as  a  wagging  point  of  interroga- 
tion, and  he  turned  his  head  first  on  one  side  and  then 
on  the  other — his  eyes  fixed  on  Little  Billee's,  his  face 
irresistible  in  its  genial  doggy  wistfulness. 

"  Tray,  what  a  singularly  good  listener  you  are— 
and  therefore  what  singularly  good  manners  you've 
got !  I  suppose  all  dogs  have !"  said  Little  Billee ;  and 
then,  in  a  very  tender  voice,  he  exclaimed. 


271 

"Alice,  Alice,  Alice!" 

And  Tray  uttered  a  soft,  cooing,  nasal  croon  in  his 
head  register,  though  he  was  a  barytone  dog  by  nat- 
ure, with  portentous,  warlike  chest-notes  of  the  jingo 
order. 

"  Tray,  your  mistress  is  a  parson's  daughter,  and 
therefore  twice  as  much  of  a  mystery  as  any  other 
woman  in  this  puzzling  world  ! 

"  Tray,  if  my  heart  weren't  stopped  with  wax,  like 
the  ears  of  the  companions  of  Ulysses  when  they  rowed 
past  the  sirens  —  you've  heard  of  Ulysses,  Tray?  he 
loved  a  dog — if  my  heart  weren't  stopped  with  wax, 
I  should  be  deeply  in  love  with  your  mistress;  per- 
haps she  would  marry  me  if  I  asked  her — there's  no 
accounting  for  tastes! — and  I  know  enough  of  myself 
to  know  that  I  should  make  her  a  good  husband — that 
I  should  make  her  happy  —  and  I  should  make  two 
other  women  happy  besides. 

"  As  for  myself  personally,  Tray,  it  doesn't  very 
much  matter.  One  good  woman  would  do  as  well  as 
another,  if  she's  equally  good-looking.  You  doubt  it  ? 
"Wait  till  you  get  a  pimple  inside  your  bump  of — your 
bump  of — wherever  you  keep  your  fondnesses,  Tray. 

"  For  that's  what's  the  matter  with  me — a  pimple — 
just  a  little  clot  of  blood  at  the  root  of  a  nerve,  and  no 
bigger  than  a  pin's  point ! 

"  That's  a  small  thing  to  cause  such  a  lot  of  wretch- 
edness, and  wreck  a  fellow's  life,  isn't  it  ?  Oh,  curse  it, 
curse  it,  curse  it — every  day  and  all  day  long ! 

"  And  just  as  small  a  thing  will  take  it  away,  I'm 
told! 

*  Ah !  grains  of  sand  are  small  things — and  so  are 


272 


diamonds !  But  diamond  or  grain  of  sand,  only  Alice 
has  got  that  small  thing  !  Alice  alone,  in  all  the  world, 
has  got  the  healing  touch  for  me  now  ;  the  hands,  the 
lips,  the  eyes !  I  know  it — I  feel  it !  I  dreamed  it  last 
night!  She  looked  me  well  in  the  face,  and  took  my 
hand — both  hands— and  kissed  me,  eyes  and  mouth, 
and  told  me  how  she  loved  me.  Ah !  what  a  dream 
it  was !  And  my  little  clot  melted  away  like  a  snow- 
flake  on  the  lips,  and  I  was  my  old  self  again,  after 
many  years  —  and  all  through  that  kiss  of  a  pure 
woman. 

"  I've  never  been  kissed  by  a  pure  woman  in  my  life 
—never !  except  by  my  dear  mother  and  sister ;  and 
mothers  and  sisters  don't  count,  when  it  comes  to 
kissing. 

"  Ah !  sweet  physician  that  she  is,  and  better  than 
all !     It  will  all  come  back  again  with  a  rush,  just  as  I 
dreamed,  and  we  will  have  a  good 
1J|I  jj-i-t-ML        time  together,  we  three !  .  .  . 

"  But   your   mistress  is  a  par- 
son's    daughter,     and     believes 
everything  she's  been  taught 
from  a  child,  just  as  you  do 
— at  least,  I  hope  so.   And 
I  like  her  for  it  —  and 
you  too. 

"  She  has  believed 
her  father  —  will 
she  ever  believe 
me,  who  think 
so   differently  ? 

"MAT  HEAVEN  r,o  WITH  HBR!"  And  if  she  does, 


273 

will  it  be  good  for  her? — and  then,  where  will  her 
father  come  in  ? 

"  Oh  !  it's  a  bad  thing  to  live,  and  no  longer  believe 
and  trust  in  your  father,  Tray  !  to  doubt  either  his  hon- 
esty or  his  intelligence.  For  he  (with  your  mother  to 
help)  has  taught  you  all  the  best  he  knows,  if  he  has 
been  a  good  father  —  till  some  one  else  comes  and 
teaches  you  better — or  worse ! 

"  And,  then,  what  are  you  to  believe  of  what  good 
still  remains  of  all  that  early  teaching — and  how  are 
you  to  sift  the  wheat  from  the  chaff  ?  .  .  . 

"  Kneel  undisturbed,  fair  saint !  I,  for  one,  will  nev- 
er seek  to  undermine  thy  faith  in  any  father,  on  earth 
or  above  it ! 

"  Yes,  there  she  kneels  in  her  father's  church,  her 
pretty  head  bowed  over  her  clasped  hands,  her  cloak 
and  skirts  falling  in  happy  folds  about  her :  I  see  it  all! 

"And  underneath,  that  poor,  sweet,  soft,  pathetic 
thing  of  flesh  and  blood,  the  eternal  woman  —  great 
heart  and  slender  brain — forever  enslaved  or  enslav- 
ing, never  self-sufficing,  never  free  .  . .  that  clear,  weak, 
delicate  shape,  so  cherishable,  so  perishable,  that  Tve 
had  to  paint  so  often,  and  know  so  well  by  heart !  and 
love  .  .  .  ah,  how  I  love  it !  Only  painter-fellows  and 
sculptor  -  fellows  can  ever  quite  know  the  fulness  of 
that  pure  love. 

"There  she  kneels  and  pours  forth  her  praise  or 
plaint,  meekly  and  duly.  Perhaps  it's  for  me  she's 
praying ! 

"  'Leave  thou  thy  sister  when  she  prays.' 
"  She  believes  her  poor  little  prayer  will  be  heard 


874 

and  answered  somewhere  up  aloft.  The  impossible 
will  be  done.  She  wants  what  she  wants  so  badly, 
and  prays  for  it  so  hard. 

"She  believes— she  believes — what  doesn't  she  be- 
lieve, Tray  ? 

"The  world  was  made  in  six  days.  It  is  just  six 
thousand  years  old.  Once  it  all  lay  smothered  under 
rain-water  for  many  weeks,  miles  deep,  because  there 
were  so  many  wicked  people  about  somewhere  down 
in  Jude^,  where  they  didn't  know  everything!  A 
costly  kind  of  clearance !  And  then  there  was  Noah, 
who  wasn't  wicked,  and  his  most  respectable  family, 
and  his  ark — and  Jonah  and  his  whale — and  Joshua 
and  the  sun,  and  what  not.  I  remember  it  all,  you 
see,  and,  oh !  such  wonderful  things  that  have  hap- 
pened since !  And  there's  everlasting  agony  for  those 
who  don't  believe  as  she  does ;  and  yet  she  is  happy, 
and  good,  and  very  kind ;  for  the  mere  thought  of 
any  live  creature  in  pain  makes  her  wretched! 

"  After  all,  if  she  believes  in  me,  she'll  believe  in 
anything ;  let  her  ! 

"  Indeed,  I'm  not  sure  that  it's  not  rather  ungainly 
for  a  pretty  woman  not  to  believe  in  all  these  good 
old  cosmic  taradiddles,  as  it  is  for  a  pretty  child  not  to 
believe  in  Little  Red  Riding-hood,  and  Jack  and  the 
Beanstalk,  and  Morgiana  and  the  Forty  Thieves ;  we 
learn  them  at  our  mother's  knee,  and  how  nice  they 
are !  Let  us  go  on  believing  them  as  long  as  we  can, 
till  the  child  grows  up  and  the  woman  dies  and  it's 
all  found  out. 

"  Yes,  Tray,  I  will  be  dishonest  for  her  dear  sake.  I 
will  kneel  by  her  side,  if  ever  T  have  the  happy  chance, 


275 

and  ever  after,  night  and  morning,  and  all  day  long  on 
Sundays  if  she  wants  me  to !  "What  will  I  not  do  for 
that  one  pretty  woman  who  believes  in  me  f  I  will  re- 
spect even  that  belief,  and  do  my  little  best  to  keep  it 
alive  forever.  It  is  much  too  precious  an  earthly  boon 
for  me  to  play  ducks  and  drakes  with.  . . . 

"So  much  for  Alice,  Tray — your  sweet  mistress  and 
mine. 

"  But,  then,  there's  Alice's  papa — and  that's  another 
pair  of  sleeves,  as  we  say  in  France. 

"  Ought  one  ever  to  play  at  make-believe  with  a 
full-grown  man  for  any  consideration  whatever — even 
though  he  be  a  parson,  and  a  possible  father-in-law  ? 
There's  a  case  of  conscience  for  you ! 

"  When  I  ask  him  for  his  daughter,  as  I  must,  and 
he  asks  me  for  my  profession  of  faith,  as  he  will,  what 
can  I  tell  him  ?  The  truth  ? 

"  But,  then,  what  will  he  say  ?  What  allowances 
will  he  make  for  a  poor  little  weak-kneed,  well-mean- 
ing waif  of  a  painter-fellow  like  me,  whose  only  choice 
lay  between  Mr.  Darwin  and  the  Pope  of  Rome,  and 
who  has  chosen  once  and  forever — and  that  long  ago 
— before  he'd  ever  even  heard  of  Mr.  Darwin's  name. 

"  Besides,  why  should  he  make  allowances  for  me  ? 
I  don't  for  him.  I  think  no  more  of  a  parson  than  he 
does  of  a  painter-fellow — and  that's  precious  little,  I'm 
afraid. 

"  What  will  he  think  of  a  man  who  says  : 

"'Look  here!  the  God  of  your  belief  isn't  mine 
and  never  will  be — but  I  love  your  daughter,  and  she 
loves  me,  and  I'm  the  only  man  to  make  her  happy  !' 

"  He's  no  Jephthah  ;   he's  made  of  flesh  and  blood, 


276 

although  he's  a  parson  —  and  loves  his  daughter  as 
much  as  Shylock  loved  his. 

"  Tell  me,  Tray— thou  that  livest  among  parsons — 
what  man,  not  being  a  parson  himself,  can  guess  how 
a  parson  would  think,  an  average  parson,  confronted 
by  such  a  poser  as  that  ? 

"Does  he,  dare  he,  can  he  ever  think  straight  or 
simply  on  any  subject  as  any  other  man  thinks,  hedged 
in  as  he  is  by  so  many  limitations  ? 

"  He  is  as  shrewd,  vain,  worldly,  self-seeking,  am- 
bitious, jealous,  censorious,  and  all  the  rest,  as  you  or 
I,  Tray — for  all  his  Christian  profession — and  just  as 
fond  of  his  kith  and  kiu ! 

"  He  is  considered  a  gentleman — which  perhaps  you 
and  I  are  not — unless  we  happen  to  behave  as  such; 
it  is  a  condition  of  his  noble  calling.  Perhaps  it's  in 
order  to  become  a  gentleman  that  he's  become  a  par- 
son !  It's  about  as  short  a  royal  road  as  any  to  that 
enviable  distinction — as  short  almost  as  her  Majesty's 
commission,  and  much  safer,  and  much  less  expensive 
— within  reach  of  the  sons  of  most  fairly  successful 
butchers  and  bakers  and  candlestick-makers. 

"  While  still  a  boy  he  has  bound  himself  irrevocably 
to  certain  beliefs,  which  he  will  be  paid  to  preserve 
and  preach  and  enforce  through  life,  and  act  up  to 
through  thick  and  thin — at  all  events,  in  the  eyes  of 
others — even  his  nearest  and  dearest — even  the  wife 
of  his  bosom. 

"  They  are  his  bread  and  butter,  these  beliefs — and 
a  man  mustn't  quarrel  with  his  bread  and  butter.  But 
a  parson  must  quarrel  with  those  who  don't  believe  as 
he  tells  them ! 


"  '  SO    MUCH    FOR   ALICE,  TRAY  '  " 

"Yet  a  few  years'  thinking  and  reading  and  experi- 
ence of  life,  one  would  suppose,  might  possibly  just 
shake  his  faith  a  little  (just  as  though,  instead  of  be- 
ing parson,  he  had  been  tinker,  tailor,  soldier,  sailor, 
gentleman,  apothecary,  ploughboy,  thief),  and  teach 
him  that  many  of  these  beliefs  are  simply  childish — 
and  some  of  them  very  wicked  indeed — and  most  im- 
moral. 

"  It  is  very  wicked  and  most  immoral  to  believe,  or 
affect  to  believe,  and  tell  others  to  believe,  that  the  un- 
seen, unspeakable,  unthinkable  Immensity  we're  all 
part  and  parcel  of,  source  of  eternal,  infinite,  inde- 


878 

struct i! ilc  life  and  light  and  might,  is  a  kind  of  wrath- 
ful,  glorified,  and  self-glorifying  ogre  in  human  shape, 
with  human  passions,  and  most  inhuman  hates — who 
suddenly  made  us  out  of  nothing,  one  fine  day — just 
for  a  freak — and  made  us  so  badly  that  we  fell  the 
next— and  turned  us  adrift  the  day  after — damned  us 
from  the  very  beginning — ab  ovo — ab  ovo  usque  ad 
malutn — ha,  ha!  —  and  ever  since  1  never  gave  us  a 
chance ! 

"  All-merciful  Father,  indeed !  "Why,  the  Prince  of 
Darkness  was  an  angel  in  comparison  (and  a  gentle- 
man into  the  bargain). 

"Just  think  of  it,  Tray — a  finger  in  every  little 
paltry  pie — an  eye  and  an  ear  at  every  key-hole,  even 
that  of  the  larder,  to  catch  us  tripping,  and  find  out  if 
we're  praising  loud  enough,  or  grovelling  low  enough, 
or  fasting  hard  enough — poor  god-forsaken  worms ! 

"  And  if  we're  naughty  and  disobedient,  everlasting 
torment  for  us ;  torture  of  so  hideous  a  kind  that  we 
wouldn't  inflict  it  on  the  basest  criminal,  not  for  one 
single  moment ! 

"  Or  else,  if  we're  good  and  do  as  we  are  bid,  an 
eternity  of  bliss  so  futile,  so  idle,  and  so  tame  that  we 
couldn't  stand  it  for  a  week,  but  for  thinking  of  its 
one  horrible  alternative,  and  of  our  poor  brother  for 
ever  and  ever  roasting  away,  and  howling  for  the 
drop  of  water  he  never  gets. 

"  Everlasting  flame,  or  everlasting  dishonor — noth- 
ing between ! 

"Isn't  it  ludicrous  as  well  as  pitiful — a  thing  to 
make  one  snigger  through  one's  tears?  Isn't  it  a 
grievous  sin  to  believe  in  such  things  as  these,  and  go 


279 

about  teaching  and  preaching  them,  and  being  paid 
for  it  —  a  sin  to  be  heavily  chastised,  and  a  shame? 
"What  a  legacy ! 

"They  were  shocking  bad  artists,  those  conceited, 
narrow-minded  Jews,  those  poor  old  doting  monks 
and  priests  and  bigots  of  the  grewsome,  dark  age  of 
faith !  They  couldn't  draw  a  bit — no  perspective,  no 
chiaro-oscuro ;  and  it's  a  wof  ul  image  they  managed  to 
evolve  for  us  out  of  the  depths  of  their  fathomless 
ignorance,  in  their  zeal  to  keep  us  off  all  the  forbidden 
fruit  we're  all  so  fond  of,  because  we  were  built  like 
that !  And  by  whom  ?  By  our  Maker,  I  suppose 
(who  also  made  the  forbidden  fruit,  and  made  it  very 
nice — and  put  it  so  conveniently  for  you  and  me  to 
see  and  smell  and  reach,  Tray — and  sometimes  even 
pick,  alas !). 

"And  even  at  that  it's  a  failure.  Only  the  very 
foolish  little  birds  are  frightened  into  good  behavior. 
The  naughty  ones  laugh  and  wink  at  each  other,  and 
pull  out  its  hair  and  beard  when  nobody's  looking,  and 
build  their  nests  out  of  the  straw  it's  stuffed  with  (the 
naughty  little  birds  in  black,  especially),  and  pick  up 
what  they  want  under  its  very  nose,  and  thrive  un- 
commonly well;  and  the  good  ones  fly  away  out  of 
sight ;  and  some  day,  perhaps,  find  a  home  in  some 
happy,  useful  father-land  far  away,  where  the  Father 
isn't  a  bit  like  this.  "Who  knows  ? 

"And  I'm  one  of  the  good  little  birds,  Tray — at 
least,  I  hope  so.  And  that  unknown  Father  lives  in 
me  whether  I  will  or  no,  and  I  love  Him  whether  He 
be  or  not,  just  because  I  can't  help  it,  and  with  the 
best  and  bravest  love  that  can  be — the  perfect  love 


280 

that  believeth  no  evil,  and  seeketh  no  reward,  and 
casteth  out  fear.  For  I'm  His  father  as  much  as  He's 
mine,  since  I've  conceived  the  thought  of  Him  after 
my  own  fashion ! 

"And  He  lives  in  you  too,  Tray — you  and  all  your 
kind.  Yes,  good  dog,  you  king  of  beasts,  I  see  it  in 
your  eyes.  .  .  . 

"Ah,  bon  Dieu  Pere,  le  Dieu  des  bonnes  gens! 
Oh !  if  we  only  knew  for  certain,  Tray !  what  mar- 
tyrdom would  we  not  endure,  you  and  I,  with  a  hap- 
py smile  and  a  grateful  heart — for  sheer  love  of  such 
a  father !  How  little  should  we  care  for  the  things  of 
this  earth ! 

"  But  the  poor  parson  ? 

"  He  must  willy-nilly  go  on  believing,  or  affecting 
to  believe,  just  as  he  is  told,  word  for  icord,  or  else 
good-bye  to  his  wife  and  children's  bread  and  butter, 
his  own  preferment,  perhaps  even  his  very  gentility — 
that  gentility  of  which  his  Master  thought  so  little,  and 
he  and  his  are  apt  to  think  so  much — with  possibly 
the  Archbishopric  of  Canterbury  at  the  end  of  it,  the 
baton  de  marechal  that  lies  in  every  clerical  knapsack. 

"  What  a  temptation !  one  is  but  human ! 

"  So  how  can  he  be  honest  without  believing  certain 
things,  to  believe  which  (without  shame)  one  must  be 
as  simple  as  a  little  child ;  as,  by-the-way,  he  is  so  clev- 
erly told  to  be  in  these  matters,  and  so  cleverly  tells 
us — and  so  seldom  is  himself  in  any  other  matter 
whatever  —  his  own  interests,  other  people's  affairs, 
the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil !  And  that's  clever 
of  him  too.  .  .  . 

"  And  if  he  chooses  to  be  as  simple  as  a  little  child, 


281 

why  shouldn't  I  treat  him  as  a  little  child,  for  his  own 
good,  and  fool  him  to  the  top  of  his  little  bent  for  his 
dear  daughter's  sake,  that  I  may  make  her  happy,  and 
thereby  him  too  ? 

"And  if  he's  not  quite  so  simple  as  all  that,  and 
makes  artful  little  compromises  with  his  conscience — 
for  a  good  purpose,  of  course — why  shouldn't  I  make 
artful  little  compromises  with  mine,  and  for  a  better 
purpose  still,  and  try  to  get  what  I  want  in  the  way 
he  does  ?  I  want  to  marry  his  daughter  far  worse  than 
he  can  ever  want  to  live  in  a  palace,  and  ride  in  a 
carriage  and  pair  with  a  mitre  on  the  panels. 

"  If  he  cheats,  why  shouldn't  I  cheat  too  ? 

"  If  he  cheats,  he  cheats  everybody  all  round — the 
wide,  wide  world,  and  something  wider  and  higher 
still  that  can't  be  measured,  something  in  himself.  / 
only  cheat  him  ! 

"If  he  cheats,  he  cheats  for  the  sake  of  very  worldly 
things  indeed  —  tithes,  honors,  influence,  power,  au- 
thority, social  consideration  and  respect — not  to  speak 
of  bread  and  butter !  /  only  cheat  for  the  love  of  a 
lady  fair — and  cheating  for  cheating,  I  like  my  cheat- 
ing best. 

"  So,  whether  he  cheats  or  not,  I'll — 

"Confound  it!  what  would  old  Taffy  do  in  such  a 
case,  I  wonder  ?  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  bother !  it's  no  good  wondering  what  old  Taffy 
would  do. 

"  Taffy  never  wants  to  marry  anybody's  daughter ; 
he  doesn't  even  want  to  paint  her !  He  only  wants  to 
paint  his  beastly  ragamuffins  and  thieves  and  drunk- 
ards, and  be  left  alone. 


283 

"  Besides,  Taffy's  as  simple  as  a  little  child  himself, 
and  couldn't  fool  any  one,  and  wouldn't  if  he  could — 
not  even  a  parson.  But  if  any  one  tries  to  fool  him, 
my  eyes !  don't  he  cut  up  rough,  and  call  names,  and 
kick  up  a  shindy,  and  even  knock  people  down  !  That's 
the  worst  of  fellows  like  Taffy.  They're  too  good  for 
this  world  and  too  solemn.  They're  impossible,  and 
lack  all  sense  of  humor.  In  point  of  fact,  Taffy's  a 
gentleman — poor  fellow  !  etjpuis  voild  ! 

"I'm  not  simple  —  worse  luck;  and  I  can't  knock 
people  down — I  only  wish  I  could!  I  can  only  paint 
them !  and  not  even  that '  as  they  really  are !'  .  .  .  Good 
old  Taffy !  .  .  . 

"  Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady ! 

"Oh,  happy,  happy  thought  —  I'll  be  brave  and 
win! 

"  I  can't  knock  people  down,  or  do  doughty  deeds, 
but  I'll  be  brave  in  my  own  little  way — the  only  way 
I  can.  .  .  . 

"  I'll  simply  lie  through  thick  and  thin — I  must — I 
will  —  nobody  need  ever  be  a  bit  the  wiser!  I  can 
do  more  good  by  lying  than  by  telling  the  truth, 
and  make  more  deserving  people  happy,  including  my- 
self and  the  sweetest  girl  alive — the  end  shall  justify 
the  means:  that's  my  excuse,  my  only  excuse!  and 
this  lie  of  mine  is  on  so  stupendous  a  scale  that  it  will 
have  to  last  me  for  life.  It's  my  only  one,  but  its 
name  is  Lion  !  and  I'll  never  tell  another  as  long  as  I 
live. 

"  And  now  that  I  know  what  temptation  really  is, 
I'll  never  think  any  harm  of  any  parson  any  more  .  .  . 
never,  never,  never  1" 


288 

So  the  little  man  went  on,  as  if  he  knew  all  about 
it,  had  found  it  all  out  for  himself,  and  nobody  else 
had  ever  found  it  out  before !  and  I  am  not  responsible 
for  his  ways  of  thinking  (which  are  not  necessarily 
my  own). 

It  must  be  remembered,  in  extenuation,  that  he  was 
very  young,  and  not  very  wise :  no  philosopher,  no 
scholar — just  a  painter  of  lovely  pictures;  only  that 
and  nothing  more.  Also,  that  he  was  reading  Mr. 
Darwin's  immortal  book  for  the  third  time,  and  it  was 
a  little  too  strong  for  him ;  also,  that  all  this  happened 
in  the  early  sixties,  long  ere  Religion  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  meet  Science  half-way,  and  hobnob  and  kiss 
and  be  friends.  Alas!  before  such  a  lying  down  of 
the  lion  and  the  lamb  can  ever  come  to  pass,  Religion 
,vill  have  to  perform  a  larger  share  of  the  journey  than 
half,  I  fear ! 

Then,  still  carried  away  by  the  flood  of  his  own 
eloquence  (for  he  had  never  had  such  an  innings  as 
this,  no  such  a  listener),  he  again  apostrophized  the 
dog  Tray,  who  had  been  growing  somewhat  inatten- 
tive (like  the  reader,  perhaps),  in  language  more  beau- 
tiful than  ever : 

"Oh,  to  be  like  you,  Tray — and  secrete  love  and 
good-will  from  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  morn- 
ing—  like  saliva,  without  effort!  with  never  a  mo- 
ment's cessation  of  flow,  even  in  disgrace  and  humili- 
ation !  How  much  better  to  love  than  to  be  loved — 
to  love  as  you  do,  my  Tray — so  warmly,  so  easily,  so 
unremittingly — to  forgive  all  wrongs  and  neglect  and 
injustice  so  quickly  and  so  well  —  and  forget  a  kind- 
ness never!  Lucky  dog  that  you  are ! 


284 

"'Oh  I  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,  or  be  as  I  hare  been, 

Or  weep  aa  I  could  once  have  wept,  o'er  many  a  vanished  scene; 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish  tho'  they 

be, 

So  'midst  this  withered  waste  of  life  those  tears  would  flow 
to  me  I* 

"  What  do  you  think  of  those  lines,  Tray  ?  I  love 
them,  because  my  mother  taught  them  to  me  when  I 
was  about  your  age  —  six  years  old,  or  seven!  and  be- 
fore the  bard  who  wrote  them  had  fallen;  like  Lu- 
cifer, son  of  the  morning !  Have  you  ever  heard  of 
Lord  Byron,  Tray  ?  He  too,  like  Ulysses,  loved  a  dog, 
and  many  people  think  that's  about  the  best  there  is 
to  be  said  of  him  nowadays !  Poor  Humpty  Dumpty ! 
Such  a  swell  as  he  once  was!  'Not  all  the  king's 
horses,  nor  all  the— 

Here  Tray  jumped  up  suddenly  and  bolted — he  saw- 
some  one  else  he  was  fond  of,  and  ran  to  meet  him.  It 
was  the  vicar,  coming  out  of  his  vicarage. 

A  very  nice-looking  vicar  —  fresh,  clean,  alert,  well 
tanned  by  sun  and  wind  and  weather  —  a  youngish 
vicar  still ;  tall,  stout,  gentlemanlike,  shrewd,  kindly, 
wordly,  a  trifle  pompous,  and  authoritative  more  than 
a  trifle ;  not  much  given  to  abstract  speculation,  and 
thinking  fifty  times  more  of  any  sporting  and  ortho- 
dox young  country  squire,  well-inched  and  well-acred 
(and  well-whiskered),  than  of  all  the  painters  in  Chris- 
tendom. 

" '  When  Greeks  joined  Greeks,  then  was  the  tug  of 
war,' "  thought  Little  Billee ;  and  he  felt  a  little  uncom- 
fortable. Alice's  father  had  never  loomed  so  big  and 
impressive  before,  or  so  distressingly  nice  to  look  at. 


285 

"  Welcome,  my  Apelles,  to  your  am  countree,  which 
is  growing  quite  proud  of  you,  I  declare  1  Young  Lord 
Archie  Waring  was  saying  only  last  night  that  he 
wished  he  had  half  your  talent !  He's  crazed  about 
painting,  you  know,  and  actually  wants  to  be  a  painter 
himself!  The  poor  dear  old  marquis  is  quite  sore 
about  it!" 

With  this  happy  exordium  the  parson  stopped  and 
shook  hands ;  and  they  both  stood  for  a  while,  looking 
seaward.  The  parson  said  the  usual  things  about  the 
sea  —  its  blueness;  its  grayness;  its  greenness;  its 
beauty ;  its  sadness  ;  its  treachery. 

" '  Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  sea  I' " 

"  Who  indeed !"  answered  Little  Billee,  quite  agree- 
ing. "  I  vote  we  don't,  at  all  events."  So  they  turned 
inland. 

The  parson  said  the  usual  things  about  the  land 
(from  the  country -gentleman's  point  of  view),  and  the 
talk  began  to  flow  quite  pleasantl}7,  with  quoting  of 
the  usual  poets,  and  capping  of  quotations  in  the  usual 
way  —  for  they  had  known  each  other  many  years, 
both  here  and  in  London.  Indeed,  the  vicar  had  once 
been  Little  Billee's  tutor. 

And  thus,  amicably,  they  entered  a  small  wooded 
hollow.  Then  the  vicar,  turning  of  a  sudden  his  full 
blue  gaze  on  the  painter,  asked,  sternly  : 

"What  book's  that  you've  got  in  your  hand,  Wil- 
lie?" 

"A — a  —  its  the  Origin  of  Species,  by  Charles  Dar- 
win. I'm  very  f-f-fond  of  it.  I'm  reading  it  for  the 


188 

third  time.  .  .  .  It's  very  g-g-good.  It  accounts  for 
things,  you  know." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  and  still  more  sternly : 

"What  place  of  worship  do  you  most  attend  in  Lon- 
don— especially  of  an  evening,  William?" 

Then  stammered  Little  Billee,  all  self-control  forsak- 
ing him : 

"I  d-d -don't  attend  any  place  of  worship  at  all, 
morning,  afternoon,  or  evening.  I've  long  given  up 
going  to  church  altogether.  I  can  only  be  frank  with 
you ;  I'll  tell  you  why.  .  .  ." 

And  as  they  walked  along  the  talk  drifted  on  to 
very  momentous  subjects  indeed,  and  led,  unfortu- 
nately, to  a  serious  falling  out  —  for  which  probably 
both  were  to  blame  —  and  closed  in  a  distressful  way 
at  the  other  end  of  the  little  wooded  hollow — a  way 
most  sudden  and  unexpected,  and  quite  grievous  to  re- 
late. When  they  emerged  into  the  open  the  parson 
was  quite  white,  and  the  painter  crimson. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  parson,  squaring  himself  up  to  more 
than  his  full  height  and  breadth  and  dignity,  his  face 
big  with  righteous  wrath,  his  voice  full  of  strong  men- 
ace— "  sir,  you're — you're  a — you're  a  thief,  sir,  a  thief! 
You're  trying  to  rob  me  of  my  Swuiour  !  Never  you 
dare  to  darken  my  door-step  again !" 

"  Sir,"  said  Little  Billee,  with  a  bow,  "  if  it  comes  to 
calling  names,  you're — you're  a — no;  you're  Alice's 
father ;  and  whatever  else  you  are  besides,  I'm  anoth- 
er for  trying  to  be  honest  with  a  parson ;  so  good- 
morning  to  you." 

And  each  walked  off  in  an  opposite  direction,  stiff 
as  pokers;  and  Tray  stood  between,  looking  first 


1  YOU'RE  A  THIEF,  SIR  I' " 


at  one  receding  figure,  then  at  the  other,  disconso- 
late. 

And  thus  Little  Billee  found  out  that  he  could  no 
more  lie  than  he  could  fly.  And  so  he  did  not  marry 
sweet  Alice  after  all,  and  no  doubt  it  was  ordered  for 
her  good  and  his.  But  there  was  tribulation  for  many 
days  in  the  house  of  Bagot,  and  for  many  months  in 
one  tender,  pure,  and  pious  bosom. 

And  the  best  and  the  worst  of  it  all  is  that,  not  very 
many  years  after,  the  good  vicar — more  fortunate  than 
most  clergymen  who  dabble  in  stocks  and  shares — 
grew  suddenly  very  rich  through  a  lucky  speculation 
in  Irish  beer,  and  suddenly,  also,  took  to  thinking  se- 
riously about  things  (as  a  man  of  business  should) — 
more  seriously  than  he  had  ever  thought  before.  So 
at  least  the  story  goes  in  North  Devon,  and  it  is  not  so 
new  as  to  be  incredible.  Little  doubts  grew  into  big 
ones — big  doubts  resolved  themselves  into  downright 
negations.  He  quarrelled  with  his  bishop;  he  quar- 
relled with  his  dean ;  he  even  quarrelled  with  his  "  poor 
dear  old  marquis,"  who  died  before  there  was  time  to 
make  it  up  again.  And  finally  he  felt  it  his  duty,  in 
conscience,  to  secede  from  a  Church  which  had  become 
too  narrow  to  hold  him,  and  took  himself  and  his  be- 
longings to  London,  where  at  least  he  could  breathe. 
But  there  he  fell  into  a  great  disquiet,  for  the  long 
habit  of  feeling  himself  always  en  evidence — of  being 
looked  up  to  and  listened  to  without  contradiction; 
of  exercising  influence  and  authority  in  spiritual  mat- 
ters (and  even  temporal) ;  of  impressing  women,  es- 
pecially, with  his  commanding  presence,  his  fine  so- 
norous voice,  his  lofty  brow,  so  serious  and  smooth,  his 


289 

soft,  big,  waving  hands,  which  soon  lost  their  country 
tan — all  this  had  grown  as  a  second  nature  to  him,  the 
breath  of  his  nostrils,  a  necessity  of  his  life.  So  he 
rose  to  be  the  most  popular  Unitarian  preacher  of  his 
day,  and  pretty  broad  at  that. 

But  his  dear  daughter  Alice,  she  stuck  to  the  old 
faith,  and  married  a  venerable  High-Church  archdea- 
con, who  very  cleverly  clutched  at  and  caught  her  and 
saved  her  for  himself  just  as  she  stood  shivering  on 
the  very  brink  of  Rome ;  and  they  were  neither  happy 
nor  unhappy  together — un  menage  bourgeois,  ni  beau 
ni  laid,  ni  bon  ni  mauvais.  And  thus,  alas !  the  bond 
of  religious  sympathy,  that  counts  for  so  much  in 
united  families,  no  longer  existed  between  father  and 
daughter,  and  the  heart's  division  divided  them.  Ce 
que  c*est  que  de  nous  !  .  .  .  The  pity  of  it ! 

And  so  .au  more  of  sweet  Alice  with  hair  so  brown. 


part  Sijtb 

'"Vraiment,  la  reine  aupres  d'elle  etait  kide 

Quand,  vers  le  soir, 
Elle  passait  sur  le  pont  de  Toledo 

En  corset  noir ! 
Un  cbapelct  du  temps  de  Charlemagne 

Ornait  son  cou.  .  .  . 

La  vent  qui  rtent  d  traters  la  montagne 
Me  rendra  fan  ! 

' '  Dansez,  chantez,  villageois !  la  nuit  tombe.  .  . 

Sabine,  un  jour, 
A  tout  donne — sa  beaute  de  colombe, 

Et  son  amour — 
Pour  1'anneau  d'or  du  Comte  de  Soldagne 

Pour  un  bijou.  . 
La  vent  qui  t>ient  d  tracers  la  montagne 

M'a  rendit  fou  !' " 

BEHOLD  our  three  musketeers  of  the  brush  once  more 
reunited  in  Paris,  famous,  after  long  years. 

In  emulation  of  the  good  Dumas,  we  will  call  it 
"  cinq  ans  apres."  It  was  a  little  more. 

Taffy  stands  for  Porthos  and  Athos  rolled  into  one, 
since  he  is  big  and  good-natured,  and  strong  enough 
to  "  assommer  un  homme  d'un  coup  de  poing,"  and  also 
stately  and  solemn,  of  aristocratic  and  romantic  ap- 
pearance, and  not  too  fat  —  not  too  much  ongbong- 
pwang,  as  the  Laird  called  it — and  also  he  does  not 
dislike  a  bottle  of  wine,  or  even  two,  and  looks  as  if 
he  had  a  history. 


291 

The  Laird,  of  course,  is  d'  Artagnan,  since  he  sells  his 
pictures  well,  and  by  the  time  we  are  writing  of  has 
already  become  an  Associate  of  the  Royal  Academy ; 
like  Quentin  Durward,  this  d' Artagnan  was  a  Scots- 
man: 

"  Ah,  was  na  he  a  Roguy,  this  piper  of  Dundee  I" 

And  Little  Billee,  the  dainty  friend  of  duchesses, 
must  stand  for  Aramis,  I  fear !  It  will  not  do  to  push 
the  simile  too  far ;  besides,  unlike  the  good  Dumas, 
one  has  a  conscience.  One  does  not  play  ducks  and 
drakes  with  historical  facts,  or  tamper  with  historical 
personages.  And  if  Athos,  Forth  os  &  Co.  are  not 
historical  by  this  time,  I  should  like  to  know  who 
are! 

Well,  so  are  Taffy,  the  Laird,  and  Little  Billee — tout 
ce  qv?il  y  a  de  plus  historiques  ! 

Our  three  friends,  well  groomed,  frock-coated,  shirt- 
collared  within  an  inch  of  their  lives,  duly  scarfed  and 
scarf -pinned,  chimney-pot-hatted,  and  most  beautifully 
trousered,  and  bal morally  booted,  or  neatly  spatted  (or 
whatever  was  most  correct  at  the  time),  are  breakfast- 
ing together  on  coffee,  rolls,  and  butter  at  a  little  round 
table  in  the  huge  court-yard  of  an  immense  caravan- 
serai, paved  with  asphalt,  and  covered  in  at  the  top 
with  a  glazed  roof  that  admits  the  sun  and  keeps  out 
the  rain — and  the  air. 

A  magnificent  old  man  as  big  as  Taffy,  in  black 
velvet  coat  and  breeches  and  black  silk  stockings,  and 
a  large  gold  chain  round  his  neck  and  chest,  looks 
down  like  Jove  from  a  broad  flight  of  marble  steps — 


as  though  to  welcome  the  coming  guests,  who  arrive 
in  cabs  and  railway  omnibuses  through  a  huge  arch- 
way on  the  boulevard,  or  to  speed  those  who  part 
through  a  lesser  archway  opening  on  to  a  side  street. 

"  Bon  voyage,  messieurs  et  dames !" 

At  countless  other  little  tables  other  voyagers  are 
breakfasting  or  ordering  breakfast ;  or,  having  break- 
fasted, are  smoking  and  chatting  and  looking  about. 
It  is  a  babel  of  tongues — the  cheerfulest,  busiest,  mer- 
riest scene  in  the  world,  apparently  the  costly  place  of 
rendezvous  for  all  wealthy  Europe  and  America ;  an 
atmosphere  of  bank-notes  and  gold. 

Already  Taffy  has  recognized  (and  been  recognized 
by)  half  a  dozen  old  fellow-Crimeans,  of  unmistakable 
military  aspect  like  himself ;  and  three  canny  Scots- 
men have  discreetly  greeted  the  Laird  ;  and  as  for  Lit- 
tle Billee,  he  is  constantly  jumping  up  from  his  break- 
fast and  running  to  this  table  or  that,  drawn  by  some 
irresistible  British  smile  of  surprised  and  delighted 
female  recognition :  "  "What,  you  here  ?  How  nice  ! 
Come  over  to  hear  la  Svengali,  I  suppose." 

At  the  top  of  the  marble  steps  is  a  long  terrace,  with 
seats  and  people  sitting,  from  which  tall  glazed  doors, 
elaborately  carved  and  gilded,  give  access  to  luxurious 
drawing-rooms,  dining-rooms,  reading-rooms,  lavato- 
ries, postal  and  telegraph  offices ;  and  all  round  and 
about  are  huge  square  green  boxes,  out  of  which  grow 
tropical  and  exotic  evergreens  all  the  year  round — 
with  beautiful  names  that  I  have  forgotten.  And 
leaning  against  these  boxes  are  placards  announcing 
what  theatrical  or  musical  entertainments  will  take 
place  in  Paris  that  day  or  night ;  and  the  biggest  of 


294 

these  placards  (and  the  most  fantastically  decorated) 
informs  the  cosmopolite  world  that  Madame  Svengali 
intends  to  make  her  first  appearance  in  Paris  that  very 
evening,  at  nine  punctually,  in  the  Cirque  des  Bashiba- 
zoucks,  Rue  St.  Honore"  1 

Our  friends  had  only  arrived  the  previous  night,  but 
they  had  managed  to  secure  stalls  a  week  beforehand. 
No  places  were  any  longer  to  be  got  for  love  or  money. 
Many  people  had  come  to  Paris  on  purpose  to  hear  la 
Svengali — many  famous  musicians  from  England  and 
everywhere  else — but  they  would  have  to  wait  many 
days. 

The  fame  of  her  was  like  a  rolling  snowball  that 
had  been  rolling  all  over  Europe  for  the  last  two 
years — wherever  there  was  snow  to  be  picked  up  in 
the  shape  of  golden  ducats. 

Their  breakfast  over,  Taffy,  the  Laird,  and  Little 
Billee,  cigar  in  mouth,  arm  in  arm,  the  huge  Taffy  in 
the  middle  (comme  autrefois),  crossed  the  sunshiny 
boulevard  into  the  shade,  and  went  down  the  Rue  de 
la  Paix,  through  the  Place  Vendorae  and  the  Rue 
Castiglione  to  the  Rue  de  Rivoli — quite  leisurely,  and 
with  a  tender  midriff-warming  sensation  of  freedom 
and  delight  at  almost  every  step. 

Arrived  at  the  corner  pastry-cook's,  they  finished 
the  stumps  of  their  cigars  as  they  looked  at  the  well- 
remembered  show  in  the  window ;  then  they  went  in 
and  had,  Taffy  a  Madeleine,  the  Laird  a  baba,  and 
Little  Billee  a  Savarin — and  each,  I  regret  to  say,  a 
liqueur-glass  of  rhum  de  la  Jamaique. 

After  this  they  sauntered  through  the  Tuileries 
Gardens,  and  by  the  quay  to  their  favorite  Pont  des 


Arts,  and  looked  up  and  down  the  river  —  oomme 
aufatfois  ! 

It  is  an  enchanting  prospect  at  any  time  and  under 
any  circumstances ;  but  on  a  beautiful  morning  in  mid 
October,  when  you  haven't  seen  it  for  five  years,  and 
are  still  young!  and  almost  every  stock  and  stone  that 
meets  your  eye,  every  sound,  every  scent,  has  some 
sweet  and  subtle  reminder  for  you — 

Let  the  reader  have  no  fear.  I  will  not  attempt  to 
describe  it.  I  shouldn't  know  where  to  begin  (nor 
when  to  leave  off !). 

Not  but  what  many  changes  had  been  wrought ; 
many  old  landmarks  were  missing.  And  among  them, 
as  they  found  out  a  few  minutes  later,  and  much  to 
their  chagrin,  the  good  old  Morgue ! 

They  inquired  of  a  gardien  de  la  paix,  who  told 
them  that  a  new  Morgue — "  une  bien  jolie  Morgue,  ma 
foi !"  —  and  much  more  commodious  and  comfortable 
than  the  old  one,  had  been  built  beyond  Notre  Dame, 
a  little  to  the  right. 

"  Messieurs  devraient  voir  ca — on  y  est  tres  bien  !" 

But  Notre  Dame  herself  was  still  there,  and  la 
Sainte  Chapelle,  and  Le  Pont  Neuf ,  and  the  equestrian 
statue  of  Henri  IY.  C^est  toujours  ga  ! 

And  as  they  gazed  and  gazed,  each  framed  unto 
himself,  mentally,  a  little  picture  of  the  Thames  they 
had  just  left — and  thought  of  Waterloo  Bridge,  and 
St.  Paul's,  and  London  —  but  felt  no  homesickness 
whatever,  no  desire  to  go  back ! 

And  looking  down  the  river  westward  there  was 
but  little  change. 

On  the  left-hand  side  the  terraces  and  gaxden  of  the 


"A    LITTLE   PICTURE   Of  THE   THAMES" 

Hotel  de  la  Rochemartel  (the  sculptured  entrance  of 
which  was  in  the  Rue  de  Lille)  still  overtopped  the 
neighboring  houses  and  shaded  the  quay  with  tall 
trees,  whose  lightly  falling  leaves  yellowed  the  pave- 
ment for  at  least  a  hundred  yards  of  frontage  —  or 
backage,  rather;  for  this  was  but  the  rear  of  that 
stately  palace. 

"  I  wonder  if  1'  Zouzou  has  come  into  his  dukedom 
yet  ?"  said  Taffy. 

And  Taffy  the  realist,  Taffy  the  modern  of  moderns, 
also  said  many  beautiful  things  about  old  historical 
French  dukedoms;  which,  in  spite  of  their  plentiful- 
ness,  were  so  much  more  picturesque  than  English 
ones,  and  constituted  a  far  more  poetical  and  romantic 
link  with  the  past ;  partly  on  account  of  their  beauti- 
ful, high-sounding  names! 

"  Amaury  de  Brissac  de  Roncesvaulx  de  la  Roche- 
martel -  Boissegur  was  a  generous  mouthful!  Why, 
the  very  sound  of  it  is  redolent  of  the  twelfth  cen- 
tury 1  Not  even  Howard  of  Norfolk  can  beat  that !" 


297 

For  Taffy  was  getting  sick  of  "this  ghastly  thin 
faced  time  of  ours,"  as  he  sadly  called  it  (quoting  from 
a  strange  and  very  beautiful  poem  called  "  Faustine," 
which  had  just  appeared  in  the  Spectator — and  which 
our  three  enthusiasts  already  knew  by  heart),  and  be- 
ginning to  love  all  things  that  were  old  and  regal  and 
rotten  and  forgotten  and  of  bad  repute,  and  to  long 
to  paint  them  just  as  they  really  were. 

"Ah!  they  managed  these  things  better  in  France, 
especially  in  the  twelfth  century,  and  even  the  thir- 
teenth !"  said  the  Laird.  "  Still,  Howard  of  Norfolk 
isn't  bad  at  a  pinch — fote  de  myoo  /"  he  continued, 
winking  at  Little  Billee.  And  they  promised  them- 
selves that  they  would  leave  cards  on  Zouzou,  and, 
if  he  wasn't  a  duke,  invite  him  to  dinner;  and  also 
Dodor,  if  they  could  manage  to  find  him. 

Then  along  the  quay  and  up  the  Rue  de  Seine,  and 
by  well  -  remembered  little  mystic  ways  to  the  old 
studio  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts. 

Here  they  found  many  changes :  A  row  of  new 
houses  on  the  north  side,  by  Baron  Haussmann — the 
well-named  ;  a  boulevard  was  being  constructed  right 
through  the  place ;  but  the  old  house  had  been  re- 
spected, and,  looking  up,  they  saw  the  big  north 
window  of  their  good  old  abode  Windless  and  blank 
and  black  but  for  a  white  placard  in  the  middle  of  it 
with  the  words  :  "A  louer.  Un  atelier,  et  une  chambre 
a  coucher." 

They  entered  the  court-yard  through  the  little  door 
in  the  porte  cochere,  and  beheld  Madame  Vinard 
standing  on  the  step  of  her  loge,  her  arms  akimbo, 
giving  orders  to  her  husband  —  who  was  sawing  logs 


298 

for  firewood,  as  usual  at  that  time  of  the  year — and 
telling  him  he  was  the  most  helpless  log  of  the 
lot. 

She  gave  them  one  look,  threw  up  her  arms,  and 
rushed  at  them,  saying,  "Ah,  mon  Dieu!  les  trois 
Angliches !" 

And  they  could  not  have  complained  of  any  lack  of 
warmth  in  her  greeting,  or  in  Monsieur  Vinard's. 

"  Ah !  mais  quel  bonheur  de  vous  revoir !  Et  comme 
vous  avez  bonne  mine,  tous !  Et  Monsieur  Litrebili, 
done  1  il  a  grandi !"  etc.,  etc.  "  Mais  vous  allez  boire 
la  goutte  avant  tout  —  vite,  Vinard  !  Le  ratafia  de 
cassis  que  Monsieur  Durien  nous  a  envoy6  la  semaine 
derniere !" 

And  they  were  taken  into  the  loge  and  made  free 
of  it — welcomed  like  prodigal  sons ;  a  fresh  bottle  of 
black-currant  brandy  was  tapped,  and  did  duty  for  the 
fatted  calf.  It  was  an  ovation,  and  made  quite  a  stir 
in  the  quartier. 

Le  Retour  des  trois  Angliches — cinq  ans  apres  ! 

She  told  them  all  the  news :  about  Bouchardy , 
Papelard ;  Jules  Guinot,  who  was  now  in  the  Minis- 
tere  de  la  Guerre ;  Barizel,  who  had  given  up  the  arts 
and  gone  into  his  father's  business  (umbrellas);  Durien, 
who  had  married  six  months  ago,  and  had  a  superb 
atelier  in  the  Rue  Taitbout,  and  was  coining  money ; 
about  her  own  family  —  Aglae,  who  was  going  to  be 
married  to  the  son  of  the  charbonnier  at  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  de  la  Canicule  —  "un  bon  mariage;  bien 
solide !''  Niniche,  who  was  studying  the  piano  at 
the  Conservatoire,  and  had  won  the  silver  medal ;  Isi- 
dore, who,  alas !  had  gone  to  the  bad — "  perdu  par  les 


299 

ferames !  un  si  joli  garcon,  vous  concevez !  pa  ne  lui 
a  pas  porte  bonheur,  par  exemple !"  And  yet  she  was 
proud  1  and  said  his  father  would  never  have  had  the 
pluck  1 

"  A  dix-huit  ans,  pensez  done ! 

"  And  that  good  Monsieur  Carrel ;  he  is  dead,  you 
know !  Ah,  messieurs  savaient  pa  ?  Yes,  he  died  at 
Dieppe,  his  natal  town,  during  the  winter,  from  the 
consequences  of  an  indigestion — que  voulez-vous !  He 
always  had  the  stomach  so  feeble !  .  .  .  Ah !  the  beau- 
tiful interment,  messieurs !  Five  thousand  people,  in 
spite  of  the  rain !  Car  il  pleuvait  averse  1  And  M. 
le  Maire  and  his  adjunct  walking  behind  the  hearse, 
and  the  gendarmerie  and  the  douaniers,  and  a  batail- 
lon  of  the  douzieme  chasseurs-a  pied,  with  their  music, 
and  all  the  sapper  -  pumpers,  en  grande  tenue  with 
their  beautiful  brass  helmets !  All  the  town  was 
there,  following :  so  there  was  nobody  left  to  see  the 
procession  go  by  !  q'c'etait  beau !  Mon  Dieu,  q'c'etait 
beau!  c'que  j'ai  pleure,  d'voir  pa!  n'est-ce-pas,  Yi- 
nard?" 

"  Dame,  oui,  ma  biche !  j'crois  ben  !  It  might  have 
been  Monsieur  le  Maire  himself  that  one  was  interring 
in  person !" 

"  Ah,  pa !  voyons,  Vinard  ;  thou'rt  not  going  to  com- 
pare the  Maire  of  Dieppe  to  a  painter  like  Monsieur 
Carrel?" 

"  Certainly  not,  ma  biche !  But  still,  M.  Carrel  was 
a  great  man  all  the  same,  in  his  way.  Besides,  I 
wasn't  there — nor  thou  either,  as  to  that !" 

"Mon  Dieu!  comme  il  est  idiot,  ce  Yinard — of  a 
stupidity  to  cut  with  a  knife !  Why,  thou  might'st 


800 

almost  bo  a  Mayor  thyself,  sacred  imbecile  that  thou 
art!" 

And  an  animated  discussion  arose  between  husband 
and  wife  as  to  the  respective  merits  of  a  country 
mayor  on  one  side  and  a  famous  painter  and  member 
of  the  Institute  on  the  other,  during  which  les  troia 
Angliches  were  left  out  in  the  cold.  When  Madame 
Vinard  had  sufficiently  routed  her  husband,  which 
did  not  take  very  long,  she  turned  to  them  again,  and 
told  them  that  she  had  started  a  magosin  de  brio 
d-brac,  "  vous  verres  g& !" 

Yes,  the  studio  had  been  to  let  for  three  months. 
"Would  they  like  to  see  it  ?  Here  were  the  keys.  They 
would,  of  course,  prefer  to  see  it  by  themselves,  alone; 
"  je  comprends  ca !  et  vous  verrez  ce  que  vous  verrez!" 
Then  they  must  come  and  drink  once  more  again  the 
drop,  and  inspect  her  magasin  de  bric-a-brac. 

So  they  went  up,  all  three,  and  let  themselves  into 
the  old  place  where  they  had  been  so  happy — and  one 
of  them  for  a  while  so  miserable ! 

It  was  changed  indeed. 

Bare  of  all  furniture,  for  one  thing ;  shabby  and  un- 
swept,  with  a  pathetic  air  of  dilapidation,  spoliation, 
desecration,  and  a  musty,  shut-up  smell ;  the  window 
so  dirty  you  could  hardly  see  the  new  houses  oppo- 
site ;  the  floor  a  disgrace ! 

All  over  the  walls  were  caricatures  in  charcoal  and 
white  chalk,  with  more  or  less  incomprehensible  le- 
gends; very  vulgar  and  trivial  and  coarse,  some  of 
them,  and  pointless  for  troia  Angliches. 

But  among  these  (touching  to  relate)  they  found, 
under  a  square  of  plate-glass  that  had  been  fixed  on 


flAJlfl-CLgLB.fl  fi, 

— ' 


—    i  ci  \  ilur-  ,i  if  in  ft»'"  -^ 

Sw|j fwn'iy  I'lf't,,  i^i 

W^^^SILlfil    !      liwll' 

Itefe^^klJl 


302 

the  wall  by  means  of  an  oak  frame,  Little  Billee's  old 
black-and-white-and-red  chalk  sketch  of  Trilby's  left 
foot,  as  fresh  as  if  it  had  been  done  only  yesterday  I 
Over  it  was  written  :  "  Souvenir  de  la  Grande  Trilby, 
par  W.  B.  (Litrebili)."  And  beneath,  carefully  en- 
grossed on  imperishable  parchment,  and  pasted  on  the 
glass,  the  following  stanzas : 

"  Pauvre  Trilby — la  belle  et  bonne  et  chfcre  I 
Je  suis  son  pied.     Devine  qui  voudra 
Qucl  tendre  ami,  la  cherissant  naguere, 
Encadra  d'elle  (et  d'un  amour  sincere) 

Ce  souvenir  cbarmant  qu'un  caprice  inspira— 
Qu'un  souffle  emportera  1 

"J'etais  jumcau  :  qu'est  devenu  mon  f rSre  T 

Helas  !    Helus  !    L'Amour  nous  egara. 

L'Eternite  nous  unira,  j'espere ; 

Et  nous  ferons  commc  autrefois  la  paire 
Au  fond  d'un  lit  bien  chaste  ou  nul  ne  troublera 
Trilby— qui  dormira. 

"0  tendre  ami,  sans  nous  qu'allez-vous  f aire  ? 
La  porte  est  close  ou.  Trilby  demeura. 
Le  Paradis  est  loin  .  .  .  et  sur  la  terre 
(Qui  nous  fut  douce  et  lui  sera  legere) 

Pour  trouver  nos  pareils,  si  bien  qu'on  cberchera — 
Beau  chercber  Ton  aura !" 

Taffy  drew  a  long  breath  into  his  manly  bosom,  and 
kept  it  there  as  he  read  this  characteristic  French  dog- 
gerel (for  so  he  chose  to  call  this  touching  little  sym- 
phony in  Ire  and  ra).  His  huge  frame  thrilled  with 
tenderness  and  pity  and  fond  remembrance,  and  he 
said  to  himself  (letting  out  his  breath):  "Dear,  dear 
Trilby!  Ah  !  if  you  had  only  .cared  for  ?ne,  /wouldn't 


"PATJTRE  TRILBY" 


804 

have  let  you  give  me  up — not  for  any  one  on  earth. 
You  were  the  mate  for  me  /" 

And  that,  as  the  reader  has  guessed  long  ago,  was 
big  Taffy's  "  history." 

The  Laird  was  also  deeply  touched,  and  could  not 
speak.  Had  he  been  in  love  with  Trilby,  too  ?  Had 
he  ever  been  in  love  with  any  one  ? 

He  couldn't  say.  But  he  thought  of  Trilby's  sweet- 
ness and  unselfishness,  her  gayety,  her  innocent  kiss- 
ings  and  caressings,  her  drollery  and  frolicsome  grace, 
her  way  of  filling  whatever  place  she  was  in  with  her 
presence,  the  charming  sight  and  the  genial  sound  of 
her ;  and  felt  that  no  girl,  no  woman,  no  lady  he  had 
ever  seen  yet  was  a  match  for  this  poor  waif  and 
stray,  this  long-legged,  cancan-dancing,  quartier-latin 
grisette,  blanch isseuse  de  fin,  "and  Heaven  knows 
what  besides!'' 

"  Hang  it  all !"  he  mentally  ejaculated,  "  I  wish  to 
goodness  I'd  married  her  myself!" 

Little  Billee  said  nothing  either.  He  felt  unhappier 
than  he  had  ever  once  felt  for  five  long  years  —  to 
think  that  he  could  gaze  on  such  a  memento  as  this,  a 
thing  so  strongly  personal  to  himself,  with  dry  eyes 
and  a  quiet  pulse !  and  he  unemotionally,  dispassion- 
ately, wished  himself  dead  and  buried  for  at  least  the 
thousand  and  first  time ! 

All  three  possessed  casts  of  Trilby's  hands  and  feet 
and  photographs  of  herself.  But  nothing  so  charm- 
ingly suggestive  of  Trilby  as  this  little  masterpiece  of 
a  true  artist,  this  happy  fluke  of  a  happy  moment.  It 
was  Trilbiness  itself,  as  the  Laird  thought,  and  should 
not  be  suffered  to  perish. 


805 

They  took  the  keys  back  to  Madame  Yinard  in  si- 
lence. 

She  said  :  "  Yous  avez  vu — n'est-ce  pas,  messieurs  ? — 
le  pied  de  Trilby  !  c'est  bien  gentil !  C'est  Monsieur 
Durien  qui  a  fait  mettre  le  verre,  quand  vous  etes  par- 
tis; et  Monsieur  Guinot  qui  a  compose  Vepitaphe. 
Pauvre  Trilby  !  qu'est-ce  qu'elle  est  devenue !  comme 
elle  etait  bonne  fille,  hein  ?  et  si  belle !  et  comme  elle 
etait  vive  elle  etait  vive  elle  etait  vive!  Et  comme 
elle  vous  aimait  tous  bien — et  surtout  Monsieur  Litre- 
bili — n'est-ce  pas  ?" 

Then  she  insisted  on  giving  them  each  another  liq- 
ueur-glass of  Durien's  ratafia  de  cassis,  and  took  them, 
to  see  her  collection  of  bric-a-brac  across  the  yard,  a 
gorgeous  show,  and  explained  everything  about  it — 
how  she  had  begun  in  quite  a  small  way,  but  was  mak- 
ing it  a  big  business. 

"  Yoyez  cette  pendule !  It  is  of  the  time  of  Louis 
Onze,  who  gave  it  with  his  own  hands  to  Madame  de 
Pompadour  (!).  I  bought  it  at  a  sale  in — " 

"  Combiang  ?"  said  the  Laird. 

"C'est  cent-cinquante  francs,  monsieur — c'est  bien. 
bon  marche — une  veritable  occasion,  et — " 

"  Je  prong !"  said  the  Laird,  meaning  "  I  take  it  I" 

Then  she  showed  them  a  beautiful  brocade  gown. 
"  which  she  had  picked  up  at  a  bargain  at — " 

"  Combiang  ?"  said  the  Laird. 

"  Ah,  ga,  c'est  trois  cents  francs,  monsieur.     Mais — " 

"  Je  prong !"  said  the  Laird. 

"  Et  voici  les  souliers  qui  vont  avec,  et  que — " 

"Jepr— " 

But  here  Taffy  took  the  Laird  by  the  arm  and 


dragged  him  by  force  out  of  this  too  seductive  siren's 
care. 

The  Laird  told  her  where  to  send  his  purchases; 
and  with  many  expressions  of  love  and  good- will  on 
both  sides,  they  tore  themselves  away  from  Monsieur 
et  Madame  Vinard. 

The  Laird,  however,  rushed  back  for  a  minute,  and 
hurriedly  whispered  to  Madame  Vinard :  "  Oh — er — 
le  piay  de  Trilby — sur  le  mure,  vous  savvy — avec  le 
rerre  et  toot  le  reste — coopy  le  mure — comprenny  ? . . . 
Combiang?" 

"Ah,  monsieur!"  said  Madame  Vinard — "c'est  un 
peu  difficile,  vous  savez — couper  un  mur  comme  £a! 
On  parlera  au  proprie*taire  si  vous  voulez,  et  9a  pour- 
rait  peut-etre  s'arranger,  si  c'est  en  bois !  settlement  il 
fau— " 

"  Je  prong  1"  said  the  Laird,  and  waved  his  hand  in 
farewell. 

They  went  up  the  Rue  Vieille  des  Mauvais  Ladres, 
and  found  that  about  twenty  yards  of  a  high  wall 
had  been  pulled  down — just  at  the  bend  where  the 
Laird  had  seen  the  last  of  Trilby,  as  she  turned  round 
and  kissed  her  hand  to  him — and  they  beheld,  within, 
a  quaint  and  ancient  long -neglected  garden;  a  gray 
old  garden,  with  tall,  warty,  black -boled  trees,  and 
damp,  green,  mossy  paths  that  lost  themselves  under 
the  brown  and  yellow  leaves  and  mould  and  muck 
which  had  drifted  into  heaps  here  and  there,  the  ac- 
cumulation of  years — a  queer  old  faded  pleasance,  with 
wasted  bowers  and  dilapidated  carved  stone  benches 
and  weather-beaten  discolored  marble  statues — nose- 
less, armless,  earless  fauns  and  hamadryads !  And  at 


807 


the  end  of  it,  in  a  tumble-down  state  of  utter  ruin,  a 
still  inhabited  little  house,  with  shabby  blinds  and 
window -curtains,  and  broken  window-panes  mended 
with  brown  paper — a  Pavilon  de  Flore,  that  must 
have  been  quite  beautiful  a  hundred  years  ago — the 
once  mysterious  love-resort  of  long-buried  abbes  with 
light  hearts,  and  well-forgotten  lords  and  ladies  gay — 
red-heeled,  patched,  powdered,  frivolous,  and  shame- 
less, but  oh !  how  charming  to  the  imagination  of  the 


"  '  JK    PRONG  1'  " 


306 

nineteenth  century  I  And  right  through  the  ragged 
Lawn  (where  lay,  upset  in  the  long  dewy  grass,  a 
broken  doll's  perambulator  by  a  tattered  Punchinello) 
went  a  desecrating  track  made  by  cart-wheels  and 
horses'  hoofs;  and  this,  no  doubt,  was  to  be  a  new 
street — perhaps,  as  Taffy  suggested,  "  La  Kue  Neuve 
des  Mauvais  Ladres  1"  (The  New  Street  of  the  Bad 
Lepers !). 

"  Ah,  Taffy !"  sententiously  opined  the  Laird,  with 
his  usual  wink  at  Little  Billee,  "  I've  no  doubt  the 
old  lepers  were  the  best,  bad  as  they  were  1" 

"  I'm  quite  sure  of  it !"  said  Taffy,  with  sad  and 
sober  conviction  and  a  long-drawn  sigh.  "  I  only  wish 
I  had  a  chance  of  painting  one  —  just  as  he  really 
wast" 

How  often  they  had  speculated  on  what  lay  hidden 
behind  that  lofty  old  brick  wall !  and  now  this  melan- 
choly little  peep  into  the  once  festive  past,  the  touch- 
ing sight  of  this  odd  old  poverty-stricken  abode  of 
Heaven  knows  what  present  grief  and  desolation, 
which  a  few  strokes  of  the  pickaxe  had  laid  bare, 
seemed  to  chime  in  with  their  own  gray  mood  that 
had  been  so  bright  and  sunny  an  hour  ago ;  and  they 
went  on  their  way  quite  dejectedly,  for  a  stroll  through 
the  Luxembourg  Gallery  and  Gardens. 

The  same  people  seemed  to  be  still  copying  the 
same  pictures  in  the  long,  quiet,  genial  room,  so  pleas- 
antly smelling  of  oil-paint — Rosa  Bonheur's  "  Labou- 
rage  Nivernais  "  —  Hebert's  "  Malaria  "  —  Couture's 
"  Decadent  Romans.5' 

And  in  the  formal  dusty  gardens  were  the  same  pi- 
oupious  and  zouzous  still  walking  with  the  same  nou- 


809 

nous,  or  sitting  by  their  sides  on  benches  by  formal 
ponds  with  gold  and  silver  fish  in  them — and  just  the 
same  old  couples  petting  the  same  teutons  and  lou- 
lous  !* 

Then  they  thought  they  would  go  and  lunch  at  le 
pere  Trin's — the  Restaurant  de  la  Couronne,  in  the 
Rue  du  Luxembourg — for  the  sake  of  auld  lang  syne ! 
But  when  they  got  there  the  well-remembered  fumes  of 
that  humble  refectory,  which  had  once  seemed  not  un- 
appetizing, turned  their  stomachs.  So  they  contented 
themselves  with  warmly  greeting  le  pere  Trin,  who 
was  quite  overjoyed  to  see  them  again,  and  anxious  to 
turn  the  whole  establishment  topsy-turvy  that  he 
might  entertain  such  guests  as  they  deserved. 

Then  the  Laird  suggested  an  omelet  at  the  Cafe  de 
POdeon.  But  Taffy  said,  in  his  masterful  way, "  Damn, 
the  Cafe  de  1'Odeon  !" 

And  hailing  a  little  open  fly,  they  drove  to  Ledo- 
yen's,  or  some  such  place,  in  the  Champs  Elysees, 
where  they  feasted  as  became  three  prosperous  Britons 
out  for  a  holiday  in  Paris — three  irresponsible  mus- 
keteers, lords  of  themselves  and  Lutetia,  leati  possi- 
dentes  ! — and  afterwards  had  themselves  driven  in  an 
open  carriage  and  pair  through  the  Bois  de  Boulogne 
to  the  fete  de  St.  Cloud  (or  what  still  remained  of  it, 
for  it  lasts  six  weeks),  the  scene  of  so  many  of  Dodor's 
and  Zouzou's  exploits  in  past  years,  and  found  it  more 

*  Glossary.— Pioupiou  (alias  pousse  -  caillou,  alias  tourlourou) — 
a  private  soldier  of  the  line.  Zouzou — a  Zouave.  Nounou — a  wet- 
nurse  with  a  pretty  ribboned  cap  and  long  streamers.  Toutou — a 
nondescript  French  lapdog,  of  no  breed  known  to  Englishmen  (a 
regular  little  beast !)  Loulou— a  Pomeranian  dog — not  much  better. 


810 

Amusing  than  the  Luxembourg  Gardens;  the  livelv 
and  irrepressible  spirit  of  Dodor  seemed  to  pervade  it 
still. 

But  it  doesn't  want  the  presence  of  a  Dodor  to  make 
the  blue-bloused  sons  of  the  Gallic  people  (and  its 
neatly  shod,  white- capped  daughters)  delightful  to 
watch  as  they  take  their  pleasure.  And  the  Laird 
(thinking  perhaps  of  Ilampstead  Heath  on  an  Easter 
Monday)  must  not  be  blamed  for  once  more  quoting 
his  favorite  phrase  —  the  pretty  little  phrase  with 
which  the  most  humorous  and  least  exemplary  of 
British  parsons  began  his  famous  journey  to  France. 

When  they  came  back  to  the  hotel  to  dress  and 
dine,  the  Laird  found  he  wanted  a  pair  of  white  gloves 
for  the  concert — "Oon  pair  de  gong  blong,"  as  he 
called  it — and  they  walked  along  the  boulevards  till 
they  came  to  a  haberdasher's  shop  of  very  good  and 
prosperous  appearance,  and,  going  in,  were  received 
graciously  by  the  "  patron,"  a  portly  little  bourgeois, 
who  waved  them  to  a  tall  and  aristocratic  and  very 
well  dressed  young  commis  behind  the  counter,  saying, 
"  Une  paire  de  gants  blancs  pour  monsieur." 

And  what  was  the  surprise  of  our  three  friends  in 
recognizing  Dodor ! 

The  gay  Dodor,  Dodor  I'irre'sistible,  quite  unem- 
barrassed by  his  position,  was  exuberant  in  his  delight 
at  seeing  them  again,  and  introduced  them  to  the  pa- 
tron and  his  wife  and  daughter,  Monsieur,  Madame, 
and  Mademoiselle  Passefil.  And  it  soon  became  pret- 
ty evident  that,  in  spite  of  his  humble  employment  in 
that  house,  he  was  a  great  favorite  in  that  family,  and 
especially  with  mademoiselle. 


812 

Indeed,  Monsieur  Passefil  invited  our  three  heroes 
to  stay  and  dine  then  and  there ;  but  they  compro- 
mised matters  by  asking  Dodor  to  come  and  dine  with 
them  at  the  hotel,  and  he  accepted  with  alacrity. 

Thanks  to  Dodor,  the  dinner  was  a  very  lively  one, 
and  they  soon  forgot  the  regretful  impressions  of  the 
day. 

They  learned  that  he  hadn't  got  a  penny  in  the  world, 
and  had  left  the  ar.ny,  and  had  for  two  years  kept  the 
books  at  le  pcre  PassenTs  and  served  his  customers, 
and  won  his  good  opinion  and  his  wife's,  and  espe- 
cially his  daughter's ;  and  that  soon  he  was  to  be  not 
only  his  employer's  partner,  but  his  son-in-law ;  and 
that,  in  spite  of  his  impecuniosity,  he  had  managed  to 
impress  them  with  the  fact  that  in  marrying  a  Rigolot 
de  Lafarce  she  was  making  a  very  splendid  match  in- 
deed! 

His  brother-in-law,  the  Honorable  Jack  Reeve,  had 
long  cut  him  for  a  bad  lot.  But  his  sister,  after  a 
while,  had  made  up  her  mind  that  to  marry  Mile. 
Passefil  wasn't  the  worst  he  could  do ;  at  all  events, 
it  would  keep  him  out  of  England,  and  that  was  a 
comfort  1  And  passing  through  Paris,  she  had  actu- 
ally called  on  the  Passefil  family,  and  they  had  fallen 
prostrate  before  such  splendor;  and  no  wonder,  for 
Mrs.  Jack  Reeve  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  ele- 
gant, and  fashionable  women  in  London,  the  smartest 
of  the  smart. 

"  And  how  about  1'  Zouzou  ?"  asked  Little  Billee. 

"  Ah,  old  Gontran !  I  don't  see  much  of  him.  "We 
no  longer  quite  move  in  the  same  circles,  you  know ; 
not  that  he's  proud,  or  me  either !  but  he's  a  sub-lieu- 


313 

tenant  in  the  Guides — an  officer !  Besides,  his  broth- 
er's dead,  and  he's  the  Due  de  la  Rochemartel,  and  a 
special  pet  of  the  Empress ;  he  makes  her  laugh  more 
than  anybody!  He's  looking  out  for  the  biggest 
heiress  he  can  find,  and  he's  pretty  safe  to  catch  her, 
with  such  a  name  as  that!  In  fact,  they  say  he's 
caught  her  already — Miss  Lavinia  Hunks,  of  Chicago. 
Twenty  million  dollars ! — at  least,  so  the  Figwro  says!" 
Then  he  gave  them  news  of  other  old  friends ;  and 
they  did  not  part  till  it  was  time  for  them  to  go  to 
the  Cirque  des  Bashibazoucks,  and  after  they  had  ar- 
ranged to  dine  with  his  future  family  on  the  following 
day. 

In  the  Eue  St.  Honore  was  a  long  double  file  of 
cabs  and  carriages  slowly  moving  along  to  the  portals 
of  that  huge  hall,  Le  Cirque  des  Bashibazoucks.  Is  it 
there  still,  I  wonder?  I  don't  mind  betting  not !  Just 
at  this  period  of  the  Second  Empire  there  was  a  mania 
for  demolition  and  remolition  (if  there  is  such  a  word), 
and  I  have  no  doubt  my  Parisian  readers  would  search 
the  Rue  St.  Honore  for  the  Salle  des  Bashibazoucks  in 
vain! 

Our  friends  were  shown  to  their  stalls,  and  looked 
round  in  surprise.  This  was  before  the  days  of  the 
Albert  Hall,  and  they  had  never  been  in  such  a  big 
place  of  the  kind  before,  or  one  so  regal  in  aspect,  so 
gorgeously  imperial  with  white  and  gold  and  crimson 
velvet,  so  dazzling  with  light,  so  crammed  with  people 
from  floor  to  roof,  and  cramming  itself  still. 

A  platform  carpeted  with  crimson  cloth  had  been 
erected  in  front  of  the  gates  where  the  horses  had 


814 

once  used  to  come  in,  and  their  fair  riders,  and  the 
two  jolly  English  clowns ;  and  the  beautiful  nobleman 
with  the  long  frock-coat  and  brass  buttons,  and  soft 
high  boots,  and  four-in-hand  whip — "  la  chambriere." 

In  front  of  this  was  a  lower  stand  for  the  orchestra. 
The  circus  itself  was  filled  with  stalls — stalles  d'or- 
chestre.  A  pair  of  crimson  curtains  hid  the  entrance 
to  the  platform  at  the  back,  and  by  each  of  these 
stood  a  small  page,  ready  to  draw  it  aside  and  admit 
the  diva. 

The  entrance  to  the  orchestra  was  by  a  small  door 
under  the  platform,  and  some  thirty  or  forty  chairs 
and  music-stands,  grouped  around  the  conductor's  es- 
trade,  were  waiting  for  the  band. 

Little  Billee  looked  round,  and  recognized  many 
countrymen  and  countrywomen  of  his  own — many 
great  musical  celebrities  especially,  whom  he  had  often 
met  in  London.  Tiers  upon  tiers  of  people  rose  up  all 
round  in  a  widening  circle,  and  lost  themselves  in  a 
dazy  mist  of  light  at  the  top — it  was  like  a  picture  by 
Martin !  In  the  imperial  box  were  the  English  ambas- 
sador and  his  family,  with  an  august  British  personage 
sitting  in  the  middle,  in  front,  his  broad  blue  ribbon 
across  his  breast  and  his  opera-glass  to  his  royal  eyes. 

Little  Billee  had  never  felt  so  excited,  so  exhilarated 
by  such  a  show  before,  nor  so  full  of  eager  anticipa- 
tion. He  looked  at  his  programme,  and  saw  that  the 
Hungarian  band  (the  first  that  had  yet  appeared  in 
western  Europe,  I  believe)  would  play  an  overture  of 
gypsy  dances.  Then  Madame  Svengali  would  sing 
"  un  air  connu,  sans  accompagnement,"  and  afterwards 
ether  airs,  including  the  "  Nussbaum  "  of  Schumann 


315 


(for  the  first  time  in  Paris,  it  seemed).  Then  a  rest  of 
ten  minutes ;  then  more  csardas ;  then  the  diva  would 
sing  "  Malbrouck  s'en  va-t'en  guerre,"  of  all  things  in 
the  world !  and  finish  up  with  "  un  impromptu  de 
Chopin,  sans  paroles." 

Truly  a  somewhat  incon- 
gruous bill  of  fare ! 

Close  on  the  stroke  of  nine 
the  musicians  came  in  and 
took  their  seats.  They  were 
dressed  in  the  foreign  hussar 
uniform  that  has  now  become 
so  familiar.  The  first  violin 
had  scarcely  sat  down  before 
our  friends  recognized  in  him 
their  old  friend  Gecko. 

Just  as  the  clock  struck, 
Svengali,  in  irreproachable 
evening  dress,  tall  and  stout 
and  quite  splendid  in  appear- 
ance, notwithstanding  his  long  black  mane  (which 
had  been  curled),  took  his  place  at  his  desk.  Our 
friends  would  have  known  him  at  a  glance,  in  spite 
of  the  wonderful  alteration  time  and  prosperity  had 
wrought  in  his  outward  man. 

He  bowed  right  and  left  to  the  thunderous  applause 
that  greeted  him,  gave  his  three  little  baton-taps,  and 
the  lovely  music  began  at  once.  We  have  grown  ac- 
customed to  strains  of  this  kind  during  the  last  twenty 
years ;  but  they  were  new  then,  and  their  strange  se- 
duction was  a  surprise  as  well  as  an  enchantment. 

Besides,  no  such  band  as  Svengali's  had  ever  been 


GECKO 


816 

heard ;  and  in  listening  to  this  overture  the  immense 
crowd  almost  forgot  that  it  was  a  mere  preparation 
for  a  great  musical  event,  and  tried  to  encore  it.  But 
Svengali  merely  turned  round  and  bowed — there  were 
to  be  no  encores  that  night. 

Then  a  moment  of  silence  and  breathless  suspense- 
curiosity  on  tiptoe  1 

Then  the  two  little  page-boys  each  drew  a  silken 
rope,  and  the  curtains  parted  and  looped  themselves 
up  on  each  side  symmetrically ;  and  a  tall  female  figure 
appeared,  clad  in  what  seemed  like  a  classical  dress  oi 
cloth  of  gold,  embroidered  with  garnets  and  beetles' 
wings ;  her  snowy  arms  and  shoulders  bare,  a  gold 
coronet  of  stars  on  her  head,  her  thick  light  brown 
hair  tied  behind  and  flowing  all  down  her  back  to 
nearly  her  knees,  like  those  ladies  in  hair -dressers' 
shops  who  sit  with  their  backs  to  the  plate-glass  win- 
dows to  advertise  the  merits  of  some  particular  hair- 
wash. 

She  walked  slowly  down  to  the  front,  her  hands 
hanging  at  her  sides  in  quite  a  simple  fashion,  and 
made  a  slight  inclination  of  her  head  and  body  tow- 
ards the  imperial  box,  and  then  to  right  and  left. 
Her  lips  and  cheeks  were  rouged ;  her  dark  level  eye- 
brows nearly  met  at  the  bridge  of  her  short  high  nose. 
Through  her  parted  lips  you  could  see  her  large  glis- 
tening white  teeth ;  her  gray  eyes  looked  straight  at 
Svengali. 

Her  face  was  thin,  and  had  a  rather  haggard  ex- 
pression, in  spite  of  its  artificial  freshness  ;  but  its  con- 
tour was  divine,  and  its  character  so  tender,  so  humble, 
so  touch ingly  simple  and  sweet,  that  one  melted  at  the 


317 

sight  of  her.  No  such  magnificent  or  seductive  appa- 
rition has  ever  been  seen  before  or  since  on  any  stage 
or  platform — not  even  Miss  Ellen  Terry  as  the  priest- 
ess of  Artemis  in  the  late  Laureate's  play,  "The 
Cup." 

The  house  rose  at  her  as  she  came  down  to  the  front ; 
and  she  bowed  again  to  right  and  left,  and  put  her  hand 
to  her  heart  quite  simply  and  with  a  most  winning 
natural  gesture,  an  adorable  gaucherie — like  a  graceful 
and  unconscious  school -girl,  quite  innocent  of  stage 
deportment. 

It  was  Trilby  ! 

Trilby  the  tone-deaf,  who  couldn't  sing  one  single 
note  in  tune!  Trilby,  who  couldn't  tell  a  C  from 
an  F!! 

What  was  going  to  happen ! 

Our  three  friends  were  almost  turned  to  stone  in 
the  immensity  of  their  surprise. 

Yet  the  big  Taffy  was  trembling  all  over ;  the  Laird's 
jaw  had  all  but  fallen  on  to  his  chest ;  Little  Billee  was 
staring,  staring  his  eyes  almost  out  of  his  head.  There 
was  something,  to  them,  so  strange  and  uncanny  about 
it  all ;  so  oppressive,  so  anxious,  so  momentous  ! 

The  applause  had  at  last  subsided.  Trilby  stood, 
with  her  hands  behind  her,  one  foot  (the  left  one)  on  a 
little  stool  that  had  been  left  there  on  purpose,  her  lips 
parted,  her  eyes  on  Svengali's,  ready  to  begin. 

He  gave  his  three  beats,  and  the  band  struck  a  chord. 
Then,  at  another  beat  from  him,  but  in  her  direction, 
she  began,  without  the  slightest  appearance  of  effort, 
without  any  accompaniment  whatever,  he  still  beating 


818 

time — conducting  her,  in  fact,  just  as  if  she  had  been 
an  orchestra  herself : 

"  Au  clair  de  la  June, 

Mon  ami  Pierrot ! 

Prfite-moi  ta  plume 

Pour  ecrire  un  mot. 
Ma  chandelle  est  morte  .  .  . 

Je  n'ai  plus  de  feu  I 
Ouvre-moi  ta  porte 
Pour  1'amour  de  Dieu  1" 

This  was  the  absurd  old  nursery  rhyme  with  which 
la  Svengali  chose  to  make  her  debut  before  the  most 
critical  audience  in  the  world !  She  sang  it  three  times 
over — the  same  verse.  There  is  but  one. 

The  first  time  she  sang  it  without  any  expression 
whatever — not  the  slightest.  Just  the  words  and  the 
tune ;  in  the  middle  of  her  voice,  and  not  loud  at  all ; 
just  as  a  child  sings  who  is  thinking  of  something  else ; 
or  just  as  a  young  French  mother  sings  who  is  darning 
socks  by  a  cradle,  and  rocking  her  baby  to  sleep  with 
her  foot. 

But  her  voice  was  so  immense  in  its  softness,  rich- 
ness, freshness,  that  it  seemed  to  be  pouring  itself  out 
from  all  round ;  its  intonation  absolutely,  mathemati- 
cally pure ;  one  felt  it  to  be  not  only  faultless,  but 
infallible;  and  the  seduction,  the  novelty  of  it,  the 
strangely  sympathetic  quality !  How  can  one  describe 
the  quality  of  a  peach  or  a  nectarine  to  those  who 
have  only  known  apples  ? 

Until  la  Svengali  appeared,  the  world  had  only 
known  apples — Catalanis,  Jenny  Linds,  Grisis,  Albonis, 
Pattis!  The  best  apples  that  can  be,  for  sure — but 
still  only  apples ! 


,  ^^iVVX--!' 


"AU   CLAIK  D£  LA 


820 

If  she  had  spread  a  pair  of  largo  white  wings  and 
gracefully  fluttered  up  to  the  roof  and  perched  upon 
the  chandelier,  she  could  not  have  produced  a  greater 
sensation.  The  like  of  that  voice  has  never  been  heard, 
nor  ever  will  be  again.  A  woman  archangel  might 
sing  like  that,  or  some  enchanted  princess  out  of  a 
fairy-tale. 

Little  Billee  had  already  dropped  his  face  into  his 
hands  and  hid  his  eyes  in  his  pocket-handkerchief;  a 
big  tear  had  fallen  on  to  Taffy's  left  whisker ;  the  Laird 
was  trying  hard  to  keep  his  tears  back. 

She  sang  the  verse  a  second  time,  with  but  little 
added  expression  and  no  louder;  but  with  a  sort  of 
breathy  widening  of  her  voice  that  made  it  like  a  broad 
heavenly  smile  of  universal  motherhood  turned  into 
sound.  One  felt  all  the  genial  gayety  and  grace  and 
impishness  of  Pierrot  and  Columbine  idealized  into 
frolicsome  beauty  and  holy  innocence,  as  though  they 
were  performing  for  the  saints  in  Paradise — a  babv 
Columbine,  with  a  cherub  for  clown  !  The  dream  of 
it  all  came  over  you  for  a  second  or  two — a  revelation 
of  some  impossible  golden  age — priceless — never  to  be 
forgotten !  How  on  earth  did  she  do  it  ? 

Little  Billee  had  lost  all  control  over  himself,  and 
was  shaking  with  his  suppressed  sobs — Little  Billee, 
who  hadn't  shed  a  single  tear  for  five  long  years! 
Half  the  people  in  the  house  were  in  tears,  but  tears  of 
sheer  delight,  of  delicate  inner  laughter. 

Then  she  came  back  to  earth,  and  saddened  and 
veiled  and  darkened  her  voice  as  she  sang  the  verse  for 
the  third  time ;  and  it  was  a  great  and  sombre  tragedy, 
too  deep  for  any  more  tears ;  and  somehow  or  other 


821 

poor  Columbine,  forlorn  and  betrayed  and  dying,  out 
in  the  cold  at  midnight — sinking  down  to  hell,  per- 
haps— was  making  her  last  frantic  appeal !  It  was  no 
longer  Pierrot  and  Columbine — it  was  Marguerite- 
it  was  Faust !  It  was  the  most  terrible  and  pathetic 
of  all  possible  human  tragedies,  but  expressed  with  no 
dramatic  or  histrionic  exaggeration  of  any  sort;  by 
mere  tone,  slight,  subtle  changes  in  the  quality  of  the 
sound — too  quick  and  elusive  to  be  taken  count  of,  but 
to  be  felt  with,  oh,  what  poignant  sympathy  ! 

"When  the  song  was  over  the  applause  did  not  come 
immediately,  and  she  waited  with  her  kind  wide  smile, 
as  if  she  were  well  accustomed  to  wait  like  this ;  and 
then  the  storm  began,  and  grew  and  spread  and  rattled 
and  echoed  —  voice,  hands,  feet,  sticks,  umbrellas  ! — 
and  down  came  the  bouquets,  which  the  little  page- 
boys picked  up ;  and  Trilby  bowed  to  front  and  right 
and  left  in  her  simple  debonnaire  fashion.  It  was  her 
usual  triumph.  It  had  never  failed,  whatever  the  au- 
dience, whatever  the  country,  whatever  the  song. 

Little  Billee  didn't  applaud.  He  sat  with  his  head 
in  his  hands,  his  shoulders  still  heaving.  He  believed 
himself  to  be  fast  asleep  and  in  a  dream,  and  was  try- 
ing his  utmost  not  to  wake ;  for  a  great  happiness  was 
his.  It  was  one  of  those  nights  to  be  marked  with  a 
white  stone ! 

As  the  first  bars  of  the  song  came  pouring  out  of 
her  parted  lips  (whose  shape  he  so  well  remembered), 
and  her  dovelike  eyes  looked  straight  over  Svengali's 
head,  straight  in  his  own  direction  —  nay,  at  him— 
something  melted  in  his  brain,  and  all  his  long-lost 
power  of  loving  came  back  with  a  rush. 


322 


It  was  like  the  sudden  curing  of  a  deafness  that  has 
been  lasting  for  years.  The  doctor  blows  through 
your  nose  into  your  Eustachian  tube  with  a  little 
India-rubber  machine;  some  obstacle  gives  way,  there 

is  a  snap  in  your  head, 
and  straightway  you 
hear  better  than  you  had 
ever  heard  in  all  your 
life,  almost  too  well ; 
and  all  your  life  is  once 
more  changed  for  you ! 
At  length  he  sat  up 
again,  in  the  middle  of 
la  Svengali's  singing  of 
the  "  Nussbaum,"  and 
saw  her;  and  saw  the 
Laird  sitting  by  him, 
and  Taffy,  their  eyes 
riveted  on  Trilby,  and 
knew  for  certain  that  it 
•was  no  dream  this  time, 
and  his  joy  was  almost 
a  pain ! 

She  sang  the  "  Nuss- 
baum  "  (to  its  heavenly 
accompaniment)  as  sim- 
ply as  she  had  sung  the 
previous  song.  Every 
separate  note  was  a 
highly  finished  gem  of 

'OOTM-MOI   TA    PORT*  SOUttd,      llllked       tO       t'tLQ 

POUR  L'AMOCR  DK  D«U  !"         next  bv  a  ma<ric  bond. 


You  did  not  require  to  be  a  lover  of  music  to  fall  be- 
neath the  spell  of  such  a  voice  as  that ;  the  mere  me- 
lodic phrase  had  all  but  ceased  to  matter.  Her  phras- 
ing, consummate  as  it  was,  was  as  simple  as  a  child's. 

It  was  as  if  she  said:  "See !  what  does  the  composer 
count  for  ?  Here  is  about  as  beautiful  a  song  as  was 
ever  written,  with  beautiful  words  to  match,  and  the 
words  have  been  made  French  for  you  by  one  of  your 
smartest  poets !  But  what  do  the  words  signify,  any 
more  than  the  tune,  or  even  the  language  ?  The  '  Nuss- 
baum'  is  neither  better  nor  worse  than  'Mon  ami 
Pierrot'  when  /  am  the  singer;  for  I  am  Svengalij 
and  you  shall  hear  nothing,  see  nothing,  think  of  noth- 
ing but  Svengali,  Svengali,  Svengali  /" 

It  was  the  apotheosis  of  voice  and  virtuosity !  It 
was  "  il  bel  canto "  come  back  to  earth  after  a  hun- 
dred years  —  the  bel  canto  of  Yivarelli,  let  us  say, 
who  sang  the  same  song  every  night  to  the  same  King 
of  Spain  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  was  rewarded 
with  a  dukedom,  and  wealth  beyond  the  dreams  of 
avarice. 

And,  indeed,  here  was  this  immense  audience,  made 
up  of  the  most  cynically  critical  people  in  the  world, 
and  the  most  anti-German,  assisting  with  rapt  ears  and 
streaming  eyes  at  the  imagined  spectacle  of  a  simple 
German  damsel,  a  Madchen,  a  Fraulein,  just  "ver- 
lobte" — a  future  Hausfrau — sitting  under  a  walnut- 
tree  in  some  suburban  garden — a  Berlin  ! — and  around 
her  her  family  and  their  friends,  probably  drinking 
beer  and  smoking  long  porcelain  pipes,  and  talking 
politics  or  business,  and  cracking  innocent  elaborate 
old  German  jokes ;  with  bated  breath,  lest  they  should 


824 

disturb  her  maiden  dream  of  love !  And  all  as  though 
it  were  a  scene  in  Elysium,  and  the  Friiulein  a  nymph 
of  many  -  fountained  Ida,  and  her  people  Olympian 
gods  and  goddesses. 

And  such,  indeed,  they  were  when  Trilby  sang  of 
them! 

After  this,  when  the  long,  frantic  applause  had  sub- 
sided, she  made  a  gracious  bow  to  the  royal  British 
opera-glass  (which  bad  never  left  her  face),  and  sang 
"  Ben  Bolt "  in  English ! 

And  then  Little  Billee  remembered  there  was  such 
a  person  as  Svengali  in  the  world,  and  recalled  his 
little  flexible  flageolet ! 

"  That  is  how  I  teach  Gecko;  that  is  how  I  teach  la 
bedite  Honorine ;  that  is  how  I  teach  il  bel  canto. . .  . 
It  was  lost,  il  bel  canto — and  I  found  it  in  a  dream — 
I,  Svengali  1" 

And  his  old  cosmic  vision  of  the  beauty  and  sadness 
of  things,  the  very  heart  of  them,  and  their  pathetic 
evanescence,  came  back  with  a  tenfold  clearness — that 
heavenly  glimpse  beyond  the  veil!  And  with  it  a 
crushing  sense  of  his  own  infinitesimal  significance  by 
the  side  of  this  glorious  pair  of  artists,  one  of  whom 
had  been  his  friend  and  the  other  his  love — a  love  who 
had  offered  to  be  his  humble  mistress  and  slave,  not 
feeling  herself  good  enough  to  be  his  wife! 

It  made  him  sick  and  faint  to  remember,  and  filled 
him  with  hot  shame,  and  then  and  there  his  love  for 
Trilby  became  as  that  of  a  dog  for  its  master ! 

She  sang  once  more — "Chanson  de  Printemps,"  by 
Gounod  (who  was  present,  and  seemed  very  hysteri- 
cal), and  the  first  part  of  the  concert  was  over,  and 


325 


people  had  time  to  draw  breath  and  talk  over  this  new 
wonder,  this  revelation  of  what  the  human  voice  could 
achieve;  and  an  immense  hum  iilled  the  hall — aston- 
ishment,  enthusiasm,    ec- 
static delight ! 

But  our  three  friends 
found  little  to  say  —  for 
what  they  felt  there  were 
as  yet  no  words ! 


"MALBROPCK  S'EN  VA-T'EN  GUEKRE" 


Taffy  and  the 
Laird  looked  at 
Little  Billee, 
who  seemed  to 
be  looking  in- 
ward at  some 

transcendent  dream  of  his  own;  with  red  eyes,  and 
his  face  all  pale  and  drawn,  and  his  nose  very  pink, 
and  rather  thicker  than  usual;  and  the  dream  ap- 
peared to  be  out  of  the  common  blissful,  though  his 


826 

eyes  were  swimming  still,  for  bis  smile  was  almost  id 
iotio  in  its  rapture  I 

The  second  part  of  the  concert  was  still  shorter  than 
the  first,  and  created,  if  possible,  a  wilder  enthusiasm. 

Trilby  only  sang  twice. 

Her  first  song  was  "  Malbrouck  s'en  va-t'en  guerre." 

She  began  it  quite  lightly  and  merrily,  like  a  jolly 
inarch ;  in  the  middle  of  her  voice,  which  had  not  as 
yet  revealed  any  exceptional  compass  or  range.  Peo- 
ple laughed  quite  frankly  at  the  first  verse: 

"Malbrouck  s'en  va-t'en  guerre — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  I 
Malbrouck  s'en  va-t'en  guerre,  .  .  . 
Ne  sais  quand  reviendra  1 
Ne  sais  quand  reviendra  ! 
Ne  sais  quand  reviendra  I" 

The  mironton^  mirontaine  was  the  very  essence  of 
high  martial  resolve  and  heroic  self-confidence ;  one 
would  have  led  a  forlorn  hope  after  hearing  it  once  1 

"II  reviendra- z-S  Pfiques — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontainel 
II  reviendra-z-i  PSques.  .  .  . 
Ou  ...  a  la  Trinite  1" 

People  still  laughed,  though  the  mironton,  mirontaine 
betrayed  an  uncomfortable  sense  of  the  dawning  of 
doubts  and  fears — vague  forebodings! 

"La  Trinite  se  passe — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  t 
La  Trinite  se  passe,  .  .  . 
Malbrouck  ne  revient  pas  1" 


827 

And  here,  especially  in  the  mironton,  mirontaine^  a 
note  of  anxiety  revealed  itself — so  poignant,  so  acutely 
natural  and  human,  that  it  became  a  personal  anxiety 
of  one's  own,  causing  the  heart  to  beat,  and  one's 
breath  was  short. 

"Madame  &  sa  tour  monte — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  I 
Madame  a  sa  tour  monte, 

Si  haul  qu'elle  peut  monter  I" 

Oh !  How  one's  heart  went  with  her !  Anne !  Sis- 
ter Anne  !  Do  you  see  anything  ? 

"  Elle  voit  de  loin  son  page — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine  I 
Elle  voit  de  loin  son  page, 
Tout  de  noir  habille !" 

One  is  almost  sick  with  the  sense  of  impending 
calamity — it  is  all  but  unbearable ! 

"Mon  page — mon  beau  page! — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine! 
Mon  page— mon  beau  page! 
Quelle  nouvelles  apportez?" 

And  here  Little  Billee  begins  to  weep  again,  and 
so  does  everybody  else !  The  mironton,  mirontaine 
is  an  agonized  wail  of  suspense  —  poor  bereaved 
duchess ! — poor  Sarah  Jennings !  Did  it  all  announce 
itself  to  you  just  like  that  ? 

All  this  while  the  accompaniment  had  been  quite 
simple — just  a  few  obvious  ordinary  chords. 

But  now,  quite  suddenly,  without  a  single  modula- 
tion or  note  of  warning,  down  goes  the  tune  a  full 


828 

major  third,  from  E  to  C — into  the  graver  depths  of 
Trilby's  great  contralto— so  solemn  and  ominous  that 
there  is  no  more  weeping,  but  the  flesh  creeps;  the 
accompaniment  slows  and  elaborates  itself;  the  march 
becomes  a  funeral  march,  with  muted  strings,  and 
quite  slowly : 

"Aux  nouvelles  que  j'apporte — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine/ 
Aux  nouvelles  que  j'apporte, 
Vos  beaux  yeux  vont  pleurer !" 

Richer  and  richer  grows  the  accompaniment.  The 
mironton,  mirontaine  becomes  a  dirge — 

"Quittez  YDS  habits  roses — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine! 
Quittez  vos  habits  roses, 
Et  vos  satins  broches!" 

Here  the  ding-donging  of  a  big  bell  seems  to  mingle 
with  the  score ;  .  .  .  and  very  slowly,  and  so  impres- 
sively that  the  news  will  ring  forever  in  the  ears  and 
hearts  of  those  who  hear  it  from  la  Svengali's  lips : 

"Le  Sieur  Malbrouck  est  mort — 

Mironton,  mironton,  mirontaine! 
Le  Sieur — Malbrouck — est — mort ! 
Est  mort — et  enterreT' 

And  thus  it  ends  quite  abruptly ! 

And  this  heart-rending  tragedy,  this  great  historical 
epic  in  two  dozen  lines,  at  which  some  five  or  six  thou- 
sand gay  French  people  are  sniffling  and  mopping  their 
eyes  like  so  many  Niobes,  is  just  a  common  old  French 


"  AUX    NOUVEU.KS    QCE    j'APPORTE, 

TOS   BEAUX    YEUX    VOXT    PI.KURKR!" 

comic  song — a  mere  nursery  ditty,  like  "  Little  Bo- 
peep" — to  the  tune, 

"  We  won't  go  home  till  morning. 
Till  daylight  doth  appear." 

And  after  a  second  or  two  of  silence  (oppressive  and 
impressive  as  that  which  occurs  at  a  burial  when  the 
handful  of  earth  is  being  dropped  on  the  coffin  -  lid) 
the  audience  bursts  once  more  into  madness ;  and  la 
Svengali,  who  accepts  no  encores,  has  to  bow  for  near- 
ly five  minutes,  standing  amid  a  sea  of  flowers.  .  .  . 


830 

Then  comes  her  great  and  final  performance.  The 
orchestra  swiftly  plays  the  first  four  bars  of  the  bass 
in  Chopin's  Impromptu  (A  flat) ;  and  suddenly,  with- 
out words,  as  a  light  nymph  catching  the  whirl  of  a 
double  skipping-rope,  la  Svengali  breaks  in,  and  vocal- 
izes that  astounding  piece  of  music  that  so  few  pianists 
can  even  play  ;  but  no  pianist  has  ever  played  it  like 
this ;  no  piano  has  ever  given  out  such  notes  as  these ! 

Every  single  phrase  is  a  string  of  perfect  gems,  of 
purest  ray  serene,  strung  together  on  a  loose  golden 
thread !  The  higher  and  shriller  she  sings,  the  sweeter 
it  is ;  higher  and  shriller  than  any  woman  had  ever 
sung  before. 

Waves  of  sweet  and  tender  laughter,  the  very  heart 
and  essence  of  innocent,  high-spirited  girlhood,  alive  to 
all  that  is  simple  and  joyous  and  elementary  in  nature 
— the  freshness  of  the  morning,  the  ripple  of  the  stream, 
the  click  of  the  mill,  the  lisp  of  wind  in  the  trees,  the 
song  of  the  lark  in  the  cloudless  sky— the  sun  and  the 
dew,  the  scent  of  early  flowers  and  summer  woods  and 
meadows — the  sight  of  birds  and  bees  and  butterflies 
and  frolicsome  young  animals  at  play — all  the  sights 
and  scents  and  sounds  that  are  the  birthright  of  happy 
children,  happy  savages  in  favored  climes  —  things 
within  the  remembrance  and  the  reach  of  most  of  us ! 
All  this,  the  memory  and  the  feel  of  it,  are  in  Trilby's 
voice  as  she  warbles  that  long,  smooth,  lilting,  dancing 
laugh,  that  wondrous  song  without  words ;  and  those 
who  hear  feel  it  all,  and  remember  it  with  her.  It  is 
irresistible ;  it  forces  itself  on  you  ;  no  words,  no  pict- 
ures, could  ever  do  the  like  !  So  that  the  tears  that  are 
shed  out  of  all  these  many  French  eyes  are  tears  of 


882 

pure,  unmixed  delight  in  happy  reminiscence!  (Cho- 
pin, it  is  true,  may  have  meant  something  quite  dif- 
ferent— a  hot-house,  perhaps,  with  orchids  and  arum 
lilies  and  tuberoses  and  hydrangeas  —  but  that  id 
neither  here  nor  there.) 

Then  comes  the  slow  movement,  the  sudden  adagio, 
with  its  capricious  ornaments  —  the  waking  of  the 
virgin  heart,  the  stirring  of  the  sap,  the  dawn  of  love; 
its  doubts  and  fears  and  questionings  ;  and  the  mellow, 
powerful,  deep  chest  notes  are  like  the  pealing  of  great 
golden  bells,  with  a  light  little  pearl  shower  tinkling 
round — drops  from  the  upper  fringe  of  her  grand  voice 
as  she  shakes  it.  ... 

Then  back  again  the  quick  part,  childhood  once 
more,  da  capo,  only  quicker!  hurry,  hurry  !  but  distinct 
as  ever.  Loud  and  shrill  and  sweet  beyond  compare — 
drowning  the  orchestra ;  of  a  piercing  quality  quite  in- 
effable ;  a  joy  there  is  no  telling ;  a  clear,  purling,  crys- 
tal stream  that  gurgles  and  foams  and  bubbles  along 
over  sunlit  stones ;  "  a  wonder,  a  world's  delight !" 

And  there  is  not  a  sign  of  effort,  of  difficulty  over- 
come. All  through,  Trilby  smiles  her  broad,  angelic 
smile ;  her  lips  well  parted,  her  big  white  teeth  glisten- 
ing as  she  gently  jerks  her  head  from  side  to  side  in 
time  to  Svengali's  baton,  as  if  to  shake  the  willing 
notes  out  quicker  and  higher  and  shriller.  .  .  . 

And  in  a  minute  or  two  it  is  all  over,  like  the  lovely 
bouquet  of  fireworks  at  the  end  of  the  show,  and  she 
lets  what  remains  of  it  die  out  and  away  like  the  after- 
glow of  fading  Bengal  fires — her  voice  receding  into 
the  distance — coming  back  to  you  like  an  echo  from 
ail  round,  from  anywhere  you  please — quite  soft— 


hardly  more  than  a  breath ;  but  such  a  breath !  Then 
one  last  chromatically  ascending  rocket,  pianissimo, 
up  to  E  in  alt,  and  then  darkness  and  silence ! 

And  after  a  little  pause  the  many-headed  rises  as 
one,  and  waves  its  hats  and  sticks  and  handkerchiefs, 
and  stamps  and  shouts.  ..."  Vive  la  Svengali !  Yive 
la  Svengali !" 

Svengali  steps  on  to  the  platform  by  his  wife's  side 
and  kisses  her  hand ;  and  they  both  bow  themselves 
backward  through  the  curtains,  which  fall,  to  rise 
again  and  again  and  again  on  this  astounding  pair  1 

Such  was  la  Svengali's  debut  in  Paris. 

It  had  lasted  little  over  an  hour,  one  quarter  of 
which,  at  least,  had  been  spent  in  plaudits  and  cour- 
tesies ! 

The  writer  is  no  musician,  alas !  (as,  no  doubt,  his 
musical  readers  have  found  out  by  this)  save  in  his 
thraldom  to  music  of  not  too  severe  a  kind,  and  la- 
ments the  clumsiness  and  inadequacy  of  this  wild 
(though  somewhat  ambitious)  attempt  to  recall  an  im- 
pression received  more  than  thirty  years  ago;  to  re- 
vive the  ever- blessed  memory  of  that  unforgettable 
first  night  at  the  Cirque  des  Bashibazoucks. 

"Would  that  I  could  transcribe  here  Berlioz's  famous 
series  of  twelve  articles,  entitled  "La  Svengali,"  which 
were  republished  from  La  Lyre  Eolienne,  and  are  now 
out  of  print ! 

Or  Theophile  Gautier's  elaborate  rhapsody,  "Ma- 
dame Svengali  —  Ange,  ou  Femme?"  in  which  he 
proves  that  one  need  not  have  a  musical  ear  (he  hadn't) 
to  be  enslaved  by  such  a  voice  as  hers,  any  more  than 
the  eye  for  beauty  (this  he  had)  to  fall  the  victim  of 


884 

"  her  celestial  form  and  face."  It  is  enough,  he  says, 
to  be  simply  human !  I  forget  in  which  journal  this 
eloquent  tribute  appeared;  it  is  not  to  be  found  in 
his  collected  works. 

Or  the  intemperate  diatribe  by  Heir  Blagner  (as  I 
will  christen  him)  on  the  tyranny  of  the  priraa  donna 
called  "  Svengalismus"  ;  in  which  he  attempts  to  show 
that  mere  virtuosity  carried  to  such  a  pitch  is  mere 
viciosity  —  base  acrobatismus  of  the  vocal  chords,  a 
hysteric  appeal  to  morbid  Gallic  "  sentimentalismus  " ; 
and  that  this  monstrous  development  of  a  phenomenal 
larynx,  this  degrading  cultivation  and  practice  of  the 
abnormal ismus  of  a  mere  physical  peculiarity,  are 
death  and  destruction  to  all  true  music ;  since  they 
place  Mozart  and  Beethoven,  and  even  himself,  on  a 
level  with  Bellini,  Donizetti,  Offenbach — any  Italian 
tune  -  tinkler,  any  ballad  -  monger  of  the  hated  Paris 
pavement !  and  can  make  the  highest  music  of  all 
(even  his  own)  go  down  with  the  common  French 
herd  at  the  very  first  hearing,  just  as  if  it  were  some 
idiotic  refrain  of  the  cafe  chantant ! 

So  much  for  Blagnerismus  v.  Svengalismus. 

But  I  fear  there  is  no  space  within  the  limits  of 
this  humble  tale  for  these  masterpieces  of  technical 
musical  criticism. 

Besides,  there  are  other  reasons. 

Our  three  heroes  walked  back  to  the  boulevards,  the 
only  silent  ones  amid  the  throng  that  poured  through 
the  Rue  St.  Honor6,  as  the  Cirque  des  Bashibazoucks 
emptied  itself  of  its  over-excited  audience. 

They  went  arm  in  arm,  as  usual ;   but  this  time  Lit- 


335 

tie  Billee  was  in  the  middle.  He  wished  to  feel  on 
each  side  of  him  the  warm  and  genial  contact  of  his 
two  beloved  old  friends.  It  seemed  as  if  they  had 
suddenly  been  restored  to  him,  after  five  long  years 
of  separation ;  his  heart  was  overflowing  with  affec- 
tion for  them,  too  full  to  speak  just  yet !  Overflow- 
ing, indeed,  with  the  love  of  love,  the  love  of  life,  the 
love  of  death  —  the  love  of  all  that  is,  and  ever  was, 
and  ever  will  be  !  just  as  in  nis  old  way. 

He  could  have  hugged  them  both  in  the  open  street, 
before  the  whole  world ;  and  the  delight  of  it  was 
that  this  was  no  dream  ;  about  that  there  was  no  mis- 
take. He  was  himself  again  at  last,  after  five  years, 
and  widj  awake  ;  and  he  owed  it  all  to  Trilby  ! 

And  what  did  he  feel  for  Trilby  2  He  couldn't  tell 
yet.  It  was  too  vast  as  yet  to  be  measured ;  and,  alas ! 
it  was  weighted  with  such  a  burden  of  sorrow  and  re- 
gret that  he  might  well  put  off  the  thought  of  it  a  little 
while  longer,  and  gather  in  what  bliss  he  might :  like 
the  man  whose  hearing  has  been  restored  after  long 
years,  he  would  revel  in  the  mere  physical  delight  of 
hearing  for  a  space,  and  not  go  out  of  his  way  as  yet 
to  listen  for  the  bad  news  that  was  already  in  the  air, 
and  would  come  to  roost  quite  soon  enough. 

Taffy  and  the  Laird  were  silent  also ;  Trilby's  voice 
was  still  in  their  ears  and  hearts,  her  image  in  their 
eyes,  and  utter  bewilderment  still  oppressed  them  and 
kept  them  dumb. 

It  was  a  warm  and  balmy  night,  almost  like  mid- 
summer ;  and  they  stopped  at  the  first  cafe  they  met 
on  the  Boulevard  de  la  Madeleine  (comme  autrefois\ 
and  ordered  bocks  of  beer,  and  sat  at  a  little  table  on 


336 

the  pavement,  the  only  one  unoccupied  ;  for  the  caf6 
was  already  crowded,  the  hum  of  lively  talk  was 
great,  and  "la  Sevengali "  was  in  every  mouth. 

The  Laird  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  emptied  his 
bock  at  a  draught,  and  called  for  another,  and  lit  a 
cigar,  and  said,  "  I  don't  believe  it  was  Trilby,  after 
all !"  It  was  the  first  time  her  name  had  been  men- 
tioned between  them  that  evening — and  for  five  years! 

"  Good  heavens  1"  said  Taffy.    "  Can  you  doubt  it  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !  that  was  Trilby,"  said  Little  Billee. 

Then  the  Laird  proceeded  to  explain  that,  putting 
aside  the  impossibility  of  Trilby's  ever  being  taught 
to  sing  in  tune,  and  her  well-remembered  loathing  for 
Svengali,  he  had  narrowly  scanned  her  face  through 
his  opera- glass,  and  found  that  in  spite  of  a  likeness 
quite  marvellous  there  were  well  -  marked  differences. 
Her  face  was  narrower  and  longer,  her  eyes  larger, 
and  their  expression  not  the  same ;  then  she  seemed 
taller  and  stouter,  and  her  shoulders  broader  and  more 
drooping,  and  so  forth. 

But  the  others  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  and  voted  him 
cracked,  and  declared  they  even  recognized  the  pecul- 
iar twang  of  her  old  speaking  voice  in  the  voice  she 
now  sang  with,  especially  when  she  sang  low  down. 
And  they  all  three  fell  to  discussing  the  wonders 
of  her  performance  like  everybody  else  all  round ; 
Little  Billee  leading,  with  an  eloquence  and  a  seeming 
of  technical  musical  knowledge  that  quite  impressed 
them,  and  made  them  feel  happy  and  at  ease ;  for  they 
were  anxious  for  his  sake  about  the  effect  this  sudden 
and  so  unexpected  sight  of  her  would  have  upon  him 
after  all  that  had  passed. 


337 

He  seemed  transcendently  happy  and  elate — inoonv 
prehensibly  so,  in  fact — and  looked  at  them  both  with 
quite  a  new  light  in  his  eyes,  as  if  all  the  music  he  had 
heard  had  trebled  not  only  his  joy  in  being  alive,  but 
his  pleasure  at  being  with  them.  Evidently  he  had 
quite  outgrown  his  old  passion  for  her,  and  that  was  a 
comfort  indeed ! 

But  Little  Billee  knew  better. 

He  knew  that  his  old  passion  for  her  had  all  come 
back,  and  was  so  overwhelming  and  immense  that  he 
could  not  feel  it  just  yet,  nor  yet  the  hideous  pangs  of 
a  jealousy  so  consuming  that  it  would  burn  up  his  life. 
He  gave  himself  another  twenty-four  hours. 

But  he  had  not  to  wait  so  long.  He  woke  up  after 
a  short,  uneasy  sleep  that  very  night,  to  find  that  the 
flood  was  over  him ;  and  he  realized  how  hopelessly, 
desperately,  wickedly,  insanely  he  loved  this  woman, 
who  might  have  been  his,  but  was  now  the  wife  of 
another  man ;  a  greater  than  he,  and  one  to  whom  she 
owed  it  that  she  was  more  glorious  than  any  other 
woman  on  earth — a  queen  among  queens — a  goddess ! 
for  what  was  any  earthly  throne  compared  to  that  she 
established  in  the  hearts  and  souls  of  all  who  came 
within  the  sight  and  hearing  of  her  !  beautiful  as  she 
was  besides — beautiful,  beautiful !  And  what  must  be 
her  love  for  the  man  who  had  taught  her  and  trained 
her,  and  revealed  her  towering  genius  to  herself  and  to 
the  world  ! — a  man  resplendent  also,  handsome  and  tall 
and  commanding — a  great  artist  from  the  crown  of  his 
head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot ! 

And  the  remembrance  of  them  —  hand  in  hand, 
master  and  pupil,  husband  and  wife  —  smiling  anrj 


"AND  THK  REMEMBRANCE  or  THEM — HAND  IN  HAND" 


bowing  in  the  face  of  all  that  splendid  tumult  they 
had  called  forth  and  could  not  quell,  stung  and  tort- 
ured and  maddened  him  so  that  he  could  not  lie  still, 
but  got  up  and  raged  and  rampaged  up  and  down  his 
hot,  narrow,  stuff y  bedroom,  and  longed  for  his  old 
familiar  brain  -  disease  to  come  back  and  narcotize  his 
trouble,  and  be  his  friend,  and  stay  with  him  till  he 
died! 

Where  was  he  to  fly  for  relief  from  such  nevr  mem- 
ories as  these,  which  would  never  cease ;  and  the 
old  memories,  and  all  the  glamour  and  grace  of  them 
that  had  been  so  suddenly  called  out  of  the  grave  ? 
And  how  could  he  escape,  now  that  he  felt  the  sight 


839 

of  her  face  and  the  sound  of  her  voice  would  be  a 
craving — a  daily  want — like  that  of  some  poor  starv- 
ing outcast  for  warmth  and  meat  and  drink  ? 

And  little  innocent,  pathetic,  ineffable,  well-remem- 
bered sweetnesses  of  her  changing  face  kept  painting 
themselves  on  his  retina;  and  incomparable  tones  of 
this  new  thing,  her  voice,  her  infinite  voice,  went  ring- 
ing in  his  head,  till  he  all  but  shrieked  aloud  in  his 
agony. 

And  then  the  poisoned  and  delirious  sweetness  of 
those  mad  kisses, 

"by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 
On  lips  that  are  for  others  " ! 

And  then  the  grewsome  physical  jealousy,  that 
miserable  inheritance  of  all  artistic  sons  of  Adam, 
that  plague  and  torment  of  the  dramatic,  plastic  im- 
agination, which  can  idealize  so  well,  and  yet  realize, 
alas !  so  keenly.  After  three  or  four  hours  spent  like 
this,  he  could  stand  it  no  longer ;  madness  was  lying 
his  way.  So  he  hurried  on  a  garment,  and  went  and 
knocked  at  Taffy's  door. 

"  Good  God !  what's  the  matter  with  you  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  good  Taffy,  as  Little  Billee  tumbled  into 
his  room,  calling  out : 

"  Oh,  Taffy,  Taffy,  I've  g-g-gone  mad,  I  think !" 
And  then,  shivering  all  over,  and  stammering  incohe- 
rently, he  tried  to  tell  his  friend  what  was  the  matter 
with  him,  with  great  simplicity. 

Taffy,  in  much  alarm,  slipped  on  his  trousers  and 
made  Little  Billee  get  into  his  bed,  and  sat  by  his  side 
holding  his  hand.  He  was  greatly  perplexed,  fearing 


840 

the  recurrence  of  another  attack  like  that  of  five  years 
back.  He  didn't  dare  leave  him  for  an  instant  to 
wake  the  Laird  and  send  for  a  doctor. 

Suddenly  Little  Billee  buried  his  face  in  the  pillow 
and  began  to  sob,  and  some  instinct  told  Taffy  this 
was  the  best  thing  that  could  happen.  The  boy  had 
always  been  a  highly  strung,  emotional,  over-excitable, 
over  -  sensitive,  and  quite  uncontrolled  maromy's-dar- 
ling,  a  cry-baby  sort  of  chap,  who  had  never  been  to 
school.  It  was  all  a  part  of  his  genius,  and  also  a  part 
of  his  charm.  It  would  do  him  good  once  more  to 
have  a  good  blub  after  five  years !  After  a  while 
Little  Billee  grew  quieter,  and  then  suddenly  he  said : 
"  What  a  miserable  ass  you  must  think  me,  what  an 
unmanly  duffer!" 

"  Why,  my  friend  ?" 

"  Why,  for  going  on  in  this  idiotic  way.  I  really 
couldn't  help  it.  I  went  mad,  I  tell  you.  I've  been 
walking  up  and  down  my  room  all  night,  till  every- 
thing seemed  to  go  round." 

"  So  have  I." 

"You?    What  for?" 

"  The  very  same  reason." 

"What!" 

"  I  was  just  as  fond  of  Trilby  as  you  were.  Only 
she  happened  to  prefer  you" 

"  What  /"  cried  Little  Billee  again.  "  You  were  fond 
of  Trilby  ?" 

"  I  believe  you,  my  boy  1" 

"In  love  with  her?" 

"  I  believe  you,  my  boy !" 

"  She  never  kne\v  it,  then  !" 


"  '  I   BELIEYK    YOU,    MY   BOY  !'  " 

"  Oh  yes,  she  did." 

"  She  never  told  me,  then !" 

"  Didn't  she  ?  That's  like  her.  /  told  her,  at  all 
events.  I  asked  her  to  marry  me." 

«  Well— I  am  damned  !    When  ?" 

"  That  day  we  took  her  to  Meudon,  with  Jeannot, 
and  dined  at  the  Garde  Champetre's,  and  she  danced 
the  cancan  with  Sandy." 

"  Well — I  am —    And  she  refused  you  ?" 

"  Apparently  so." 

"  Well,  I—     Why  on  earth  did  she  refuse  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  she'd  already  begun  to  fancy  you. 

my  friend.     //  y  en  a  twijours  un  autre!" 
23 


842 

"Fancy  tne — prefer  me — to  youf" 

"  Well,  yes.  It  does  seem  odd  —  eh,  old  fellow  1 
But  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes,  you  know.  She's 
built  on  such  an  ample  scale  herself,  I  suppose,  that 
she  likes  little  uns  —  contrast,  you  see.  She's  very 
maternal,  I  think.  Besides,  you're  a  smart  little  chap  ; 
and  you  ain't  half  bad ;  and  you've  got  brains  and 
talent,  and  lots  of  cheek,  and  all  that.  I'm  rather  a 
ponderous  kind  of  party." 

"  Well— I  am  damned  !" 

"  C'est  comme  $a  !    I  took  it  lying  down,  you  see." 

"  Does  the  Laird  know  ?" 

"No;  and  I  don't  want  him  to — nor  anybody  else." 

"Taffy,  what  a  regular  downright  old  trump  you 
are!" 

"  Glad  you  think  so ;  anyhow,  we're  both  in  the 
same  boat,  and  we've  got  to  make  the  best  of  it.  She's 
another  man's  wife,  and  probably  she's  very  fond  of 
him.  I'm  sure  she  ought  to  be,  cad  as  he  is,  after  all 
he's  done  for  her.  So  there's  an  end  of  it." 

"Ah!  there'll  never  be  an  end  of  it  for  me — never — 
never — oh,  never,  my  God  !  She  would  have  married 
me  but  for  my  mother's  meddling,  and  that  stupid  old 
ass,  my  uncle.  What  a  wife !  Think  of  all  she  must 
have  in  her  heart  and  brain,  only  to  sing  like  that ! 
And,  O  Lord !  how  beautiful  she  is — a  goddess !  Oh, 
the  brow  and  cheek  and  chin,  and  the  way  her  head's 
put  on  !  did  you  ever  see  anything  like  it !  Oh,  if 
only  I  hadn't  written  and  told  my  mother  I  was  going 
to  marry  her !  why,  we  should  have  been  man  and 
wife  for  five  years  by  this  time — living  at  Barbizon — 
painting  away  like  mad  !  Oh,  what  a  heavenly  life ! 


343 

Oh,  curse  all  officious  meddling  with  other  people's 
affairs !  Oh  !  oh  !  ..." 

"  There  you  go  again !  "What's  the  good  ?  and  where 
do  /  come  in,  my  friend  ?  /  should  have  been  no  bet- 
ter off,  old  fellow — worse  than  ever,  I  think." 

Then  there  was  a  long  silence. 

At  length  Little  Billee  said : 

"  Taffy,  I  can't  tell  you  what  a  trump  you  are.  All 
I've  ever  thought  of  you  —  and  God  knows  that's 
enough — will  be  nothing  to  what  I  shall  always  think 
of  you  after  this." 

"  All  right,  old  chap." 

"  And  now  I  think  /'m  all  right  again,  for  a  time — 
and  I  shall  cut  back  to  bed.  Good-night !  Thanks 
more  than  I  can  ever  express !"  And  Little  Billee,  re- 
stored to  his  balance,  cut  back  to  his  own  bed  just  as 
the  day  was  breaking. 


part  Scvcntb 

"The  moon  made  thy  lips  pale,  beloved  ; 
The  wind  made  thy  bosom  chill ; 
The  night  did  shed 
On  thy  dear  head 
Its  frozen  dew,  and  thou  didst  lie 
Where  the  bitter  breath  of  the  naked  sky 
Might  visit  thee  at  will." 

NEXT  morning  our  three  friends  lay  late  abed,  and 
breakfasted  in  their  rooms. 

They  had  all  three  passed  "white  nights" — even 
the  Laird,  who  had  tossed  about  and  pressed  a  sleep- 
less pillow  till  dawn,  so  excited  had  he  been  by  the 
wonder  of  Trilby's  reincarnation,  so  perplexed  by  his 
own  doubts  as  to  whether  it  was  really  Trilby  or 
not. 

And  certain  haunting  tones  of  her  voice,  that  voice 
so  cruelly  sweet  (which  clove  the  stillness  with  a  clang 
so  utterly  new,  so  strangely  heart-piercing  and  seduc- 
tive, that  the  desire  to  hear  it  once  more  became  nos- 
talgic—  almost  an  ache!),  certain  bits  and  bars  and 
phrases  of  the  music  she  had  sung,  unspeakable  felici- 
ties and  facilities  of  execution ;  sudden  exotic  warmths, 
fragrances,  tendernesses,  graces,  depths,  and  breadths ; 
quick  changes  from  grave  to  gay,  from  rough  to 
smooth,  from  great  metallic  brazen  clangors  to  soft 
golden  suavities ;  all  the  varied  modes  of  sound  we 
trv  so  vainlv  to  borrow  from  vocal  nature  by  means 


345 

of  wind  and  reed  and  string — all  this  new  "Trilby- 
ness  "  kept  echoing  in  his  brain  all  night  (for  he  was 
of  a  nature  deeply  musical),  and  sleep  had  been  impos- 
sible to  him. 

"As  when  we  dwell  upon  a  word  we  know, 
Repeating,  till  the  word  we  know  BO  well 
Becomes  a  wonder,  and  we  know  not  why," 

so  dwelt  the  Laird  upon  the  poor  old  tune  "  Ben  Bolt," 
which  kept  singing  itself  over  and  over  again  in  his 
tired  consciousness,  and  maddened  him  with  novel, 
strange,  unhackneyed,  unsuspected  beauties  such  as  he 
had  never  dreamed  of  in  any  earthly  music. 

It  had  become  a  wonder,  and  he  knew  not  why ! 

They  spent  what  was  left  of  the  morning  at  the 
Louvre,  and  tried  to  interest  themselves  in  the  "  Mar- 
riage of  Cana,"  and  the  "  Woman  at  the  Well,"  and 
Yandyck's  man  with  the  glove,  and  the  little  princess 
of  Yelasquez,  and  Lisa  Gioconda's  smile  :  it  was  of  no 
use  trying.  There  was  no  sight  worth  looking  at  in 
all  Paris  but  Trilby  in  her  golden  raiment ;  no  other 
princess  in  the  world ;  no  smile  but  hers,  when  through 
her  parted  lips  came  bubbling  Chopin's  Impromptu. 
They  had  not  long  to  stay  in  Paris,  and  they  must 
drink  of  that  bubbling  fountain  once  more — coute  que 
coute  !  They  went  to  the  Salle  des  Bashibazoucks,  and 
found  that  all  seats  all  over  the  house  had  been  taken 
for  days  and  weeks ;  and  the  "  queue  "  at  the  door  had 
already  begun !  and  they  had  to  give  up  all  hopes  of 
slaking  this  particular  thirst. 

Then  they  went  and  lunched  perfunctorily,  and 
talked  desultorilv  over  lunch,  and  read  criticisms  of 


846 


la  Svengali's  debut  in  the  morning  papers — a  chorus 
of  journalistic  acclamation  gone  mad,  a  frenzied  eulogy 
in  every  key — but  nothing  was  good  enough  for  them ! 
Brand-new  words  were  wanted — another  language! 

Then  they  wanted  a  long  walk,  and  could  think  of 
nowhere  to  go  in  all  Paris — that  immense  Paris,  where 
they  had  promised  themselves  to  see  so  much  that  the 
week  they  were  to  spend  there  had  seemed  too  short ! 

Looking  in  a  paper,  they  saw  it  announced  that  the 
band  of  the  Imperial  Guides  would  play  that  after- 
noon in  the  Pre  Catelan,  Bois  de  Boulogne,  and 
thought  they  might  as  well  walk  there  as  anywhere 
else,  and  walk  back  again  in  time  to  dine  with  the 
Passefils — a  prandial  function  which  did  not  promise 
to  be  very  amusing;  but  still  it  was  something  to  kill 
the  evening  with,  since  they  couldn't  go  and  hear 
Trilby  again. 

Outside  the  Pre  Catelan  they  found  a  crowd  of  cabs 
and  carriages,  saddle-horses  and  grooms.  One  might 
have  thought  one's  self  in  the  height  of  the  Paris  sea- 
son. They  went  in,  and  strolled  about  here  and  there, 
and  listened  to  the  band,  which  was  famous  (it  has 
performed  in  London  at  the  Crystal  Palace),  and  they 
looked  about  and  studied  life,  or  tried  to. 

Suddenly  they  saw,  sitting  with  three  ladies  (one  of 
whom,  the  eldest,  was  in  black),  a  very  smart  .young 
officer,  a  guide,  all  red  and  green  and  gold,  and  recog- 
nized their  old  friend  Zouzou.  They  bowed,  and  he 
knew  them  at  once,  and  jumped  up  and  came  to  them 
and  greeted  them  warmly,  especially  his  old  friend 
Taffy,  whom  he  took  to  his  mother — the  lady  in  black 
— and  introduced  to  the  other  ladies,  the  younger  of 


847 

whom,  strangely  unlike  the  rest  of  her  countrywomen, 
was  so  lamentably,  so  pathetically  plain  that  it  would  be 
brutal  to  attempt  the  cheap  and  easy  task  of  describing 
her.  It  was  Miss  Lavinia  Hunks,  the  famous  American 
millionairess,  and  her  mother.  Then  the  good  Zouzou 
came  back  and  talked  to  the  Laird  and  Little  Billee. 

Zouzou,  in  some  subtle  and  indescribable  way,  had 
become  very  ducal  indeed. 

He  looked  extremely  distinguished,  for  one  thing,  in 
his  beautiful  guide's  uniform,  and  was  most  gracefully 
and  winningly  polite.  He  inquired  warmly  after  Mrs. 
and  Miss  Bagot,  and  begged  Little  Billee  would  recall 
him  to  their  amiable  remembrance  when  he  saw  them 
again.  He  expressed  most  sympathetically  his  de- 
light to  see  Little  Billee  looking  so  strong  and  so  well 
(Little  Billee  looked  like  a  pallid  little  washed-out 
ghost,  after  his  white  night). 

They  talked  of  Dodor.  He  said  how  attached  he 
was  to  Dodor,  and  always  should  be ;  but  Dodor,  it 
seemed,  had  made  a  great  mistake  in  leaving  the  army 
and  going  into  a  retail  business  {petit  commerce).  He 
had  done  for  himself — degringole  !  He  should  have 
stuck  to  the  dragons — with  a  little  patience  and  good 
conduct  he  would  have  "  won  his  epaulet " — and  then 
one  might  have  arranged  for  him  a  good  little  mar- 
riage— un  parti  convenable — for  he  was  "  tres  joli  gar- 
£on,  Dodor !  bonne  tournure — et  tres  gentiment  ne ! 
C'est  tres  ancien,  les  Rigolot — dans  le  Poitou,  je  crois 
— Lafarce,  et  tout  £a ;  tout  a  fait  bien !" 

It  was  difficult  to  realize  that  this  polished  and  dis- 
creet and  somewhat  patronizing  young  man  of  the 
world  was  the  jolly  dog  who  had  gone  after  Little 


848 

Billee's  hat  on  all  fours  in  the  Rue  Vieille  des  Mau- 
vais  Ladres  and  brought  it  back  in  his  mouth — the 
Caryhatide ! 

Little  Billee  little  knew  that  Monsieur  le  Due  de  la 
Hochemartel-Boissegur  had  quite  recently  delighted  a 
rery  small  and  select  and  most  august  imperial  supper- 
party  at  Compiegne  with  this  very  story,  not  blinking 
a  single  detail  of  his  own  share  in  it — and  had  given 
a  most  touching  and  sympathetic  description  of  "le 
joli  petit  peintre  anglais  qui  s'appelait  Litrebili,  et 
ne  pouvait  pas  se  tenir  sur  ses  jambes — et  qui  pleu- 
rait  d'amour  fraternel  dans  les  bras  de  mon  copain 
Dodor!" 

"  Ah !  Monsieur  Gontran,  ce  que  je  donnerais  pour 
avoir  vu  £a !"  had  said  the  greatest  lady  in  France ; 
"un  de  mes  zouaves— a  quatre  pattes — dans  la  rue — 
un  chapeau  dans  la  bouche — oh — c'est  impayable  !" 

Zouzou  kept  these  blackguard  bohemian  reminis- 
cences for  the  imperial  circle  alone  —  to  which  it 
was  suspected  that  he  was  secretly  rallying  himself. 
Among  all  outsiders  —  especially  within  the  narrow 
precincts  of  the  cream  of  the  noble  Faubourg  (which 
remained  aloof  from  the  Tuileries) — he  was  a  very 
proper  and  gentlemanlike  person  indeed,  as  his  brother 
had  been — and,  in  his  mother's  fond  belief,  "  tres  bien 
pensant,  tres  bien  vu,  a  Frohsdorf  et  a  Rome." 

On  lui  aurait  donne  le  bon  Dieu  sans  confession — 
as  Madame  Yinard  had  said  of  Little  Billee  —  they 
would  have  shriven  him  at  sight,  and  admitted  him  to 
the  holy  communion  on  trust ! 

He  did  not  present  Little  Billee  and  the  Laird  to 
his  mother,  nor  to  Mrs.  and  Miss  Hunks ;  that  honor 


840 

was  reserved  for  "  the  Man  of  Blood  "  alone ;  nor  did  he 
ask  where  they  were  staying,  nor  invite  them  to  call  on 
him.  But  in  parting  he  expressed  the  immense  pleas- 
ure it  had  given  him  to  meet  them  again,  and  the  hope 
he  had  of  some  day  shaking  their  hands  in  London. 

As  the  friends  walked  back  to  Paris  together,  it 
transpired  that  "  the  Man  of  Blood  "  had  been  invited 
by  Madame  Duchesse  Mere  (Maman  Duchesse,  as  Zou- 
zou  called  her)  to  dine  with  her  next  day,  and  meet  the 
Hunkses  at  a  furnished  apartment  she  had  taken  in  the 
Place  Yendome ;  for  they  had  let  (to  the  Hunkses)  the 
Hotel  de  la  Kochemartel  in  the  Hue  de  Lille ;  they  had 
also  been  obliged  to  let  their  place  in  the  country,  le 
chateau  de  Boissegur  (to  Monsieur  Despoires,  or  "  des 
Poires,"  as  he  chose  to  spell  himself  on  his  visiting- 
cards —  the  famous  soap  -  manufacturer  —  "Un  tres 
brave  homme,  a  ce  qu'on  dit !"  and  whose  only  son, 
by-the-way,  soon  after  married  Mademoiselle  Jeanne- 
Adelaide  d'Amaury-Brissac  de  Roncesvaulx  de  Boisse- 
gur de  la  Rochemartel). 

"  II  ne  fait  pas  gras  chez  nous  a  present — je  vous  as- 
sure !"  Madame  Duchesse  Mere  had  pathetically  said 
to  Taffy — but  had  given  him  to  understand  that  things 
would  be  very  much  better  for  her  son,  in  the  event 
of  his  marriage  with  Miss  Hunks. 

"  Good  heavens !"  said  Little  Billee,  on  hearing  this ; 
"  that  grotesque  little  bogy  in  blue  ?  Why,  she's  de- 
formed— she  squints — she's  a  dwarf,  and  looks  like  an 
idiot !  Millions  or  no  millions,  the  man  who  marries 
her  is  a  felon !  As  long  as  there  are  stones  to  break 
and  a  road  to  break  them  on,  the  able-bodied  man  who 
marries  a  woman  like  that  for  anything  but  pity  and 


850 

kindness — and  even  then — dishonors  himself,  insults 
his  ancestry,  and  inflicts  on  his  descendants  a  wrong 
that  nothing  will  ever  redeem — he  nips  them  in  the  bud 
—he  blasts  them  forever !  He  ought  to  be  cut  by  his 
fellow-men — sent  to  Coventry — to  jail — to  penal  servi- 
tude for  life !  He  ought  to  have  a  separate  hell  to 
himself  when  he  dies.  He  ought  to — 

"  Shut  up,  you  little  blaspheming  ruffian  !"  said  the 
Laird.  "  Where  do  you  expect  to  go  to,  yourself,  with 
such  frightful  sentiments  ?  And  what  would  become 
of  your  beautiful  old  twelfth-century  dukedoms,  with 
a  hundred  yards  of  back-frontage  opposite  the  Louvre, 
on  a  beautiful  historic  river,  and  a  dozen  beautiful  his- 
toric names,  and  no  money  —  if  you  had  your  way?" 
and  the  Laird  wunk  his  historic  wink. 

"  Twelfth-century  dukedoms  be  damned !"  said  Taffy 
au  grand  serieux,  as  usual.  "  Little  Billee's  quite  right, 
and  Zouzou  makes  me  sick!  Besides,  what  does  she 
marry  him  for  —  not  for  his  beauty  either,  I  guess! 
She's  his  fellow -criminal,  his  deliberate  accomplice, 
particeps  delicti,  accessory  before  the  act  and  after ! 
She  has  no  right  to  marry  at  all !  tar  and  feathers  and 
a  rail  for  both  of  them — and  for  Maman  Duchesse  too 
— and  I  suppose  that's  why  I  refused  her  invitation  to 
dinner !  and  now  let's  go  and  dine  with  Dodor —  .  .  . 
anyhow  Dodor's  young  woman  doesn't  marry  him  for 
a  dukedom  —  or  even  his  'de'-—  mais  lien  pour  sea 
beaux  yeux!  and  if  the  Kigolots  of  the  future  turn  out 
less  nice  to  look  at  than  their  sire,  and  not  quite  so 
amusing,  they  will  probably  be  a  great  improvement 
on  him  in  many  other  ways.  There's  room  enough — 
and  to  spare !'' 


"MAMAN  DDCHESSE''' 


852 

"'Ear!  'ear!"  said  Little  Billee  (who  always  grew 
flippant  when  Taffy  got  on  his  high  horse).  "Your 
'ealth  and  song,  sir — them's  my  sentiments  to  a  T! 
What  shall  we  'ave  the  pleasure  of  drinkin',  after  that 
wery  nice  'armony  ?" 

After  which  they  walked  on  in  silence,  each,  no 
doubt,  musing  on  the  general  contrariness  of  things, 
and  imagining  what  splendid  little  Wynnes,  or  Bagots, 
or  McAlisters  might  have  been  ushered  into  a  deca- 
dent world  for  its  regeneration  if  fate  had  so  willed  it 
that  a  certain  magnificent  and  singularly  gifted  gri- 
sette,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.  .  ,  . 

Mrs.  and  Miss  Hunks  passed  them  as  they  walked 
along,  in  a  beautiful  blue  barouch  with  C  springs — 
un  "  huit-ressorts  "  /  Maman  Duchesse  passed  them  in 
a  hired  fly  ;  Zouzou  passed  them  on  horseback ;  "tout 
Paris "  passed  them ;  but  they  were  none  the  wiser, 
and  agreed  that  the  show  was  not  a  patch  on  that  in 
Hyde  Park  during  the  London  season. 

When  they  reached  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  it  was 
that  lovely  hour  of  a  fine  autumn  day  in  beautiful 
bright  cities  when  all  the  lamps  are  lit  in  the  shops 
and  streets  and  under  the  trees,  and  it  is  still  day- 
light— a  quickly  fleeting  joy ;  and  as  a  special  treat  on 
this  particular  occasion  the  sun  set,  and  up  rose  the 
yellow  moon  over  eastern  Paris,  and  floated  above  the 
chimney-pots  of  the  Tuileries. 

They  stopped  to  gaze  at  the  homeward  procession  of 
cabs  and  carriages,  as  they  used  to  do  in  the  old  times. 
Tout  Paris  was  still  passing ;  tout  Paris  is  very  long. 

They  stood  among  a  little  crowd  of  sight-seers  like 
themselves.  Little  Billee  right  in  front — in  the  road. 


353 

Presently  a  magnificent  open  carriage  came  by- 
more  magnificent  than  even  the  Hunkses',  with  liv- 
eries and  harness  quite  vulgarly  resplendent — almost 
Napoleonic. 

Lolling  back  in  it  lay  Monsieur  et  Madame  Svengali 
—he  with  his  broad-brimmed  felt  sombrero  over  his 
long  black  curls,  wrapped  in  costly  furs,  smoking  his 
big  cigar  of  the  Plavana. 

By  his  side  la  Svengali — also  in  sables — with  a  large 
black  velvet  hat  on,  her  light  brown  hair  done  up  in  a 
huge  knot  on  the  nape  of  her  neck.  She  was  rouged 
and  pearl-powdered,  and  her  eyes  were  blackened  be- 
neath, and  thus  made  to  look  twice  their  size  ;  but  in 
spite  of  all  such  disfigurements  she  was  a  most  splen- 
did vision,  and  caused  quite  a  little  sensation  in  the 
crowd  as  she  came  slowly  by. 

Little  Billee's  heart  was  in  his  mouth.  He  caught 
Svengali's  eye,  and  saw  him  speak  to  her.  She  turned 
her  head  and  looked  at  him  standing  there — they 
both  did.  Little  Billee  bowed.  She  stared  at  him 
with  a  cold  stare  of  disdain,  and  cut  him  dead — so  did 
Svengali.  And  as  they  passed  he  heard  them  both 
snigger — she  with  a  little  high-pitched,  flippant  snigger 
worthy  of  a  London  bar-maid. 

Little  Billee  was  utterly  crushed,  and  everything 
seemed  turning  round. 

The  Laird  and  Taffy  had  seen  it  all  without  losing 
a  detail.  The  Svengalis  had  not  even  looked  their 
way.  The  Laird  said  : 

"  It's  not  Trilby — I  swear !  She  could  never  have 
done  that — it's  not  in  her !  and  it's  another  face  alto- 
gether— I'm  sure  of  it!" 


Taffy  was  also  staggered  and  in  doubt.  They  caught 
hold  of  Little  Billee,  each  by  an  arm,  and  walked  him 
off  to  the  boulevards,  lie  was  quite  demoralized,  and 

wanted  not  to  dine  at 
the  Passefils'.  He  want- 
ed to  go  straight  home 


THK    CUT    DIRKCT 


at  once.  He  longed  for  his  mother  as  he  used  to  long 
for  her  when  he  was  in  trouble  as  a  small  boy  and  she 
was  away  from  home — longed  for  her  desperately — to 
hug  her  and  hold  her  and  fondle  her,  and  be  fondled, 
for  his  own  sake  and  hers ;  all  his  old  Jove  for  her 
had  come  back  in  full — with  what  arrears!  all  his  old 
love  for  his  sister,  for  his  old  home. 

When  they  went  back  to  the  hotel  to  dress  (for 


865 

Dodor  had  begged  them  to  put  on  their  best  evening 
war-paint,  so  as  to  impress  his  future  mother-in-law), 
Little  Billee  became  fractious  and  intractable.  And  it 
was  only  on  Taffy's  promising  that  he  would  go  all 
the  way  to  Devonshire  with  him  on  the  morrow,  and 
stay  with  him  there,  that  he  could  be  got  to  dress  and 
dine. 

The  huge  Taffy  lived  entirely  by  his  affections,  and 
he  hadn't  many  to  live  by — the  Laird,  Trilby,  and 
Little  Billee. 

Trilby  was  unattainable,  the  Laird  was  quite  strong 
and  independent  enough  to  get  on  by  himself,  and 
Taffy  had  concentrated  all  his  faculties  of  protection 
and  affection  on  Little  Billee,  and  was  equal  to  any 
burden  or  responsibility  all  this  instinctive  young 
fathering  might  involve. 

In  the  first  place,  Little  Billee  had  always  been  able 
to  do  quite  easily,  and  better  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world,  the  very  things  Taffy  most  longed  to  do  him- 
self and  couldn't,  and  this  inspired  the  good  Taffy  with 
a  chronic  reverence  and  wonder  he  could  not  have 
expressed  in  words. 

Then  Little  Billee  was  physically  small  and  weak, 
and  incapable  of  self-control.  Then  he  was  generous, 
amiable,  affectionate,  transparent  as  crystal,  without 
an  atom  of  either  egotism  or  conceit ;  and  had  a  gift 
of  amusing  you  and  interesting  you  by  his  talk  (and 
its  complete  sincerity)  that  never  palled ;  and  even  his 
silence  was  charming — one  felt  so  sure  of  him  —  so 
there  was  hardly  any  sacrifice,  little  or  big,  that  big 
Taffy  was  not  ready  and  glad  to  make  for  Little  Bil- 
lee. On  the  other  hand,  there  lay  deep  down  under 


856 

Taffy's  surface  irascibility  and  earnestness  about  tri- 
fles (and  beneath  his  harmless  vanity  of  the  strong 
man),  a  long-suffering  patience,  a  real  humility,  a  ro- 
bustness of  judgment,  a  sincerity  and  all-roundness,  a 
completeness  of  sympathy,  that  made  him  very  good 
to  trust  and  safe  to  lean  upon.  Then  his  powerful, 
impressive  aspect,  his  great  stature,  the  gladiatorlike 
poise  of  his  small  round  head  on  his  big  neck  and 
shoulders,  his  huge  deltoids  and  deep  chest  and  slen- 
der loins,  his  clean-cut  ankles  and  wrists,  all  the  long 
and  bold  and  highly -finished  athletic  shapes  of  him, 
that  easy  grace  of  strength  that  made  all  his  move- 
ments a  pleasure  to  watch,  and  any  garment  look  well 
when  he  wore  it — all  this  was  a  perpetual  feast  to  the 
quick,  prehensile,  aesthetic  eye.  And  then  he  had  such 
a  solemn,  earnest,  lovable  way  of  bending  pokers  round 
his  neck,  and  breaking  them  on  his  arm,  and  jumping 
his  own  height  (or  near  it),  and  lifting  up  arm-chairs 
by  one  leg  with  one  hand,  and  what  not  else ! 

So  that  there  was  hardly  any  sacrifice,  little  or  big, 
that  Little  Billee  would  not  accept  from  big  Taffy  as 
a  mere  matter  of  course — a  fitting  and  proper  tribute 
rendered  by  bodily  strength  to  genius. 

Par  nobile  fratrum — well  met  and  well  mated  for 
fast  and  long- enduring  friendship. 


The  family  banquet  at  Monsieur  Passefil's  would 
have  been  dull  but  for  the  irrepressible  Dodor,  and  still 
more  for  the  Laird  of  Cockpen,  who  rose  to  the  occa- 
sion, and  surpassed  himself  in  geniality,  drollery,  and 
eccentricity  of  French  grammar  and  accent.  Monsieur 


857 

Passefil  was  also  a  droll  in  his  way,  and  had  the  quick- 
ly familiar,  jocose  facetiousness  that  seems  to  belong 
to  the  successful  middle-aged  bourgeois  all  over  the 
world,  when  he's  not  pompous  instead  (he  can  even 
be  both  sometimes). 

Madame  Passefil  was  not  jocose.  She  was  much 
impressed  by  the  aristocratic  splendor  of  Taffy,  the 
romantic  melancholy  and  refinement  of  Little  Billee, 
and  their  quiet  and  dignified  politeness.  She  always 
spoke  of  Dodor  as  Monsieur  de  Lafarce,  though  the 
rest  of  the  family  (and  one  or  two  friends  who  had 
been  invited)  always  called  him  Monsieur  Theodore, 
and  he  was  officially  known  as  Monsieur  Kigolot. 

Whenever  Madame  Passefil  addressed  him  or  spoke 
of  him  in  this  aristocratic  manner  (which  happened 
very  often),  Dodor  would  wink  at  his  friends,  with 
his  tongue  in  his  cheek.  It  seemed  to  amuse  him 
beyond  measure. 

Mademoiselle  Ernestine  was  evidently  too  much  in 
love  to  say  anything,  and  seldom  took  her  eyes  off 
Monsieur  Theodore,  whom  she  had  never  seen  in  even- 
ing dress  before.  It  must  be  owned  that  he  looked 
very  nice — more  ducal  than  even  Zouzou — and  to  be 
Madame  de  Lafarce  en  perspective,  and  the  future 
owner  of  such  a  brilliant  husband  as  Dodor,  was  enough 
to  turn  a  stronger  little  bourgeois  head  than  Made- 
moiselle Ernestine's. 

She  was  not  beautiful,  but  healthy,  well  grown,  well 
brought  up,  and  presumably  of  a  sweet,  kind,  and 
amiable  disposition  —  an  ingenue  fresh  from  her  con- 
vent— innocent  as  a  child,  no  doubt ;  and  it  was  felt 

that  Dodor  had  done  better  for  himself  (and  for  his 
24 


358 


race)  than  Monsieur  le  Due.    Little  Dodore  need  have 
no  fear. 

After  dinner  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  left  the 
dining-room  together,  and  sat  in  a  pretty  salon  over- 
looking the  boulevard,  where  cigarettes  were  allowed, 
and  there  was  music.  Mademoiselle  Ernestine  la- 
boriously played  "  Les  Cloches  du  Monastere "  (by 
Monsieur  Lefebure-Wely,  if  I'm  not  mistaken).  It's 
the  most  bourgeois  piece  of  music  I  know. 

Then  Dodor,  with 
his  sweet  high  voice,  so 
strangely  pathetic  and 
true,  sang  goody-goody 
little  French  songs  of 


SsSfeaSlilW 


"PKTIT    ENFANT,    j'AIMAIS    p'CN    AMOfR    TENDRE 

MA    MERE    ET    IMEC — SAINTKS   AFFECTIONS  ! 
PUIS    lin.N    AMOUR    AUX    FLKfRS    SE    FIT   ESTENDRK, 
PCIS    AUX    Olbi-ALi.   H.T    PfIS    Al  X    PAPILLOSS  Jr 


359 

innocence  (of  which  he  seemed  to  have  an  endless  r& 
pertoire)  to  his  future  wife's  conscientious  accompani- 
ment— to  the  immense  delight,  also,  of  all  his  future 
family,  who  were  almost  in  tears — and  to  the  great 
amusement  of  the  Laird,  at  whom  he  winked  in  the 
most  pathetic  parts,  putting  his  forefinger  to  the  side 
of  his  nose,  like  Noah  Claypole  in  Oliver  Twist. 

The  wonder  of  the  hour,  la  Svengali,  was  discussed, 
of  course ;  it  was  unavoidable.  But  our  friends  did  not 
think  it  necessary  to  reveal  that  she  was  "  la  grande 
Trilby."  That  would  soon  transpire  by  itself. 

And,  indeed,  before  the  month  was  a  week  older 
the  papers  were  full  of  nothing  else. 

Madame  Svengali  —  "  la  grande  Trilby  " — was  the 
only  daughter  of  the  honorable  and  reverend  Sir 
Lord  O'Ferrall. 

She  had  run  away  from  the  primeval  forests  and 
lonely  marshes  of  le  Dublin,  to  lead  a  free-and-easy 
life  among  the  artists  of  the  quartier  latin  of  Paris — 
une  vie  de  bokeme  ! 

She  was  the  Venus  Anadyomene  from  top  to  toe. 

She  was  blanche  comme  neige,  avec  un  volcan  dans 
le  cceur. 

Casts  of  her  alabaster  feet  could  be  had  at  Brucci- 
ani's,  in  the  Rue  de  la  Souriciere  St.  Denis.  (He  made 
a  fortune.) 

Monsieur  Ingres  had  painted  her  left  foot  on  the 
wall  of  a  studio  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts ; 
and  an  eccentric  Scotch  milord  (le  Comte  de  Pen- 
cock)  had  bought  the  house  containing  the  flat  con- 
taining the  studio  containing  the  wall  on  which  it 
was  painted,  had  had  the  house  pulled  down,  and 


860 

the  wall  framed  and  glazed  and  sent  to  his  castle  of 
Edimbourg. 

(This,  unfortunately,  was  in  excess  of  the  truth.  It 
was  found  impossible  to  execute  the  Laird's  wish,  on 
account  of  the  material  the  wall  was  made  of.  So  the 
Lord  Count  of  Pencock — such  was  Madame  Vinard's 
version  of  Sandy's  nickname  —  had  to  forego  his  pur- 
chase.) 

Next  morning  our  friends  were  in  readiness  to  leave 
Paris ;  even  the  Laird  had  had  enough  of  it,  and  longed 
to  get  back  to  his  work  again — a  "  Hari-kari  in  Yoko- 
hama." (He  had  never  been  to  Japan ;  but  no  more 
had  any  one  else  in  those  early  days.) 

They  had  just  finished  breakfast,  and  were  sitting 
in  the  court-yard  of  the  hotel,  which  was  crowded,  as 
usual. 

Little  Billee  went  into  the  hotel  post-office  to  de- 
spatch a  note  to  his  mother.  Sitting  sideways  there 
at  a  small  table  and  reading  letters  was  Svengali — 
of  all  people  in  the  world.  But  for  these  two  and  a 
couple  of  clerks  the  room  was  empty. 

Svengali  looked  up ;  they  were  quite  close  to- 
gether. 

Little  Billee,  in  his  nervousness,  began  to  shake, 
and  half  put  out  his  hand,  and  drew  it  back  again, 
seeing  the  look  of  hate  on  Svengali's  face. 

Svengali  jumped  up,  put  his  letters  together,  and 
passing  by  Little  Billee  on  his  way  to  the  door,  called 
him  "  verfluchter  Schweinhund,"  and  deliberately  spat 
in  his  face. 

Little  Billee  was  paralyzed  for  a  second  or  two; 


861 

then  he  ran  after  Svengali,  and  caught  him  just  at 
the  top  of  the  marble  stairs,  and  kicked  him,  and 
knocked  off  his  hat,  and  made  him  drop  all  his  let- 
ters. Svengali  turned  round  and  struck  him  over  the 
mouth  and  made  it  bleed,  and  Little  Billee  hit  out  like 
a  fury,  but  with  no  effect:  he  couldn't  reach  high 
enough,  for  Svengali  was  well  over  six  feet. 

There  was  a  crowd  round  them  in  a  minute,  includ- 
ing the  beautiful  old  man  in  the  court  suit  and  gold 
chain,  who  called  out : 

"Vite!  vite!  un  commissaire  de  police!" — a  cry 
that  was  echoed  all  over  the  place. 

Taffy  saw  the  row,  and  shouted,  "  Bravo,  little  un !" 
and  jumping  up  from  his  table,  jostled  his  way  through 
the  crowd ;  and  Little  Billee,  bleeding  and  gasping  and 
perspiring  and  stammering,  said: 

"  He  spat  in  my  face,  Taffy — damn  him !  I'd  never 
even  spoken  to  him — not  a  word,  I  swear !" 

Svengali  had  not  reckoned  on  Taffy's  being  there ; 
he  recognized  him  at  once,  and  turned  white. 

Taffy,  who  had  dog-skin  gloves  on,  put  out  his  right 
hand,  and  deftly  seized  Svengali's  nose  between  his 
fore  and  middle  fingers  and  nearly  pulled  it  off,  and 
swung  his  head  two  or  three  times  backward  and  for- 
ward by  it,  and  then  from  side  to  side,  Svengali  hold- 
ing on  to  his  wrist ;  and  then,  letting  him  go,  gave 
him  a  sounding  open-handed  smack  on  his  right  cheek 
— and  a  smack  on  the  face  from  Taffy  (even  in  play) 
was  no  joke,  I'm  told ;  it  made  one  smell  brimstone, 
and  see  and  hear  things  that  didn't  exist. 

Svengali  gasped  worse  than  Little  Billee,  and 
couldn't  speak  for  a  while.  Then  he  said, 


862 

"Lache —  grand  lache!  che  fous  enferrai  mes  t& 
moins !" 

"  At  your  orders  1"  said  Taffy,  in  beautiful  French, 
and  drew  out  his  card-case,  and  gave  him  his  card  in 
quite  the  orthodox  French  manner,  adding :  "  I  shall 
be  here  till  to-morrow  at  twelve — but  that  is  my 
London  address,  in  case  I  don't  hear  from  you  be- 
fore I  leave.  I'm  sorry,  but  you  really  mustn't  spit, 
you  know — it's  not  done.  I  will  come  to  you  when- 
ever you  send  for  me — even  if  I  have  to  come  from 
the  end  of  the  world." 

"  Tres  bien  !  tres  bien !"  said  a  military -looking  old 
gentleman  close  by,  who  gave  Taffy  his  card,  in  case 
he  might  be  of  any  service — and  who  seemed  quite 
delighted  at  the  row — and  indeed  it  was  really  pleas- 
ant to  note  with  what  a  smooth,  flowing,  rhythmical 
spontaneity  the  good  Taffy  could  always  improvise 
these  swift  little  acts  of  summary  retributive  justice : 
no  hurry  or  scurry  or  flurry  whatever — not  an  inhar- 
monious gesture,  not  an  infelicitous  line  —  the  very 
poetry  of  violence,  and  its  only  excuse  ! 

Whatever  it  was  worth,  this  was  Taffy's  special 
gift,  and  it  never  failed  him  at  a  pinch. 

When  the  commissaire  de  police  arrived,  all  was 
over.  Svengali  had  gone  away  in  a  cab,  and  Taffy 
put  himself  at  the  disposition  of  the  commissaire. 

They  went  into  the  post-office  and  discussed  it  all 
with  the  old  military  gentleman,  and  the  major-domo  in 
velvet,  and  the  two  clerks  who  had  seen  the  original  in- 
sult. And  all  that  was  required  of  Taffy  and  his  friends 
for  the  present  was  "  their  names,  prenames,  titles, 
qualities,  age,  address,  nationality,  occupation,"  etc. 


364 

"C'est  une  affaire  qui  s'arrangera  autreraent,  et  au- 
tre  part  1"  had  said  the  military  gentleman — monsieur 
Je  ge'ne'ral  Comte  de  la  Tour-aux-Loups. 

So  it  blew  over  quite  simply ;  and  all  that  day 
a  fierce  unholy  joy  burned  in  Taffy's  choleric  blue 
eye. 

Not,  indeed,  that  he  had  any  wish  to  injure  Trilby's 
husband,  or  meant  to  do  him  any  grievous  bodily 
harm,  whatever  happened.  But  he  was  glad  to  have 
given  Svengali  a  lesson  in  manners. 

That  Svengali  should  injure  him  never  entered  into 
his  calculations  for  a  moment.  Besides,  he  didn't  be- 
lieve Svengali  would  show  fight ;  and  in  this  he  was 
not  mistaken. 

But  he  had,  for  hours,  the  feel  of  that  long,  thick, 
shapely  Hebrew  nose  being  kneaded  between  his 
gloved  knuckles,  and  a  pleasing  sense  of  the  effective- 
ness of  the  tweak  he  had  given  it.  So  he  went  about 
chewing  the  cud  of  that  heavenly  remembrance  all 
day,  till  reflection  brought  remorse,  and  he  felt  sorry ; 
for  he  was  really  the  mildest-mannered  man  that  ever 
broke  a  head ! 

Only  the  sight  of  Little  Billee's  blood  (which  had 
been  made  to  flow  by  such  an  unequal  antagonist)  had 
roused  the  old  Adam. 

No  message  came  from  Svengali  to  ask  for  the 
names  and  addresses  of  Taffy's  seconds ;  so  Dodor  and 
Zouzou  (not  to  mention  Mister  the  general  Count  of 
the  Tooraloornls.  as  the  Laird  called  him)  were  left 
undisturbed  ;  and  our  three  musketeers  went  back  to 
London  clean  of  blood,  whole  of  limb,  and  heartily 
sick  of  Paris. 


865 

Little  Billee  stayed  with  his  mother  and  sister  in 
Devonshire  till  Christmas,  Taffy  staying  at  the  village 
inn. 

It  was  Taffy  who  told  Mrs.  Bagot  about  la  Sven- 
gali's  all  but  certain  identity  with  Trilby,  after  Little 
Billee  had  gone  to  bed,  tired  and  worn  out,  the  night 
of  their  arrival. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  poor  Mrs.  Bagot.  ""Why, 
that's  the  new  singing  woman  who's  coming  over  here! 
There's  an  article  about  her  in  to-day's  Times.  It 
says  she's  a  wonder,  and  that  there's  no  one  like  her ! 
Surely  that  can't  be  the  Miss  O'Ferrall  I  saw  in 
Paris!" 

"  It  seems  impossible — but  I'm  almost  certain.it  is — 
and  Willy  has  no  doubts  in  the  matter.  On  the  other 
hand,  McAlister  declares  it  isn't." 

"  Oh,  what  trouble !  So  that's  why  poor  Willy 
looks  so  ill  and  miserable !  It's  all  come  back  again. 
Could  she  sing  at  all  then,  when  you  knew  her  in 
Paris?" 

"Not  a  note — her  attempts  at  singing  were  quite 
grotesque." 

"  Is  she  still  very  beautiful  ?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  there's  no  doubt  about  that ;  more  than 
ever !" 

"And  her  singing  —  is  that  so  very  wonderful?  I 
remember  that  she  had  a  beautiful  voice  in  speaking." 

"  Wonderful  ?  Ah,  yes ;  I  never  heard  or  dreamed 
the  like  of  it.  Grisi,  Alboni,  Patti — not  one  of  them 
to  be  mentioned  in  the  same  breath !" 

"  Good  heavens !  Why,  she  must  be  simply  irre- 
sistible !  I  wonder  you're  not  in  love  with  her  your- 


366 

self.  I  low  dreadful  these  sirens  are,  wrecking  the 
peace  of  families !" 

"  You  mustn't  forget  that  she  gave  way  at  once  at 
a  word  from  you,  Mrs.  Bagot ;  and  she  was  very  fond 
of  Willy.  She  wasn't  a  siren  then." 

"Oh  yes  —  oh  yes!  that's  true  —  she  behaved  very 
well  —  she  did  her  duty  —  I  can't  deny  that!  You 
must  try  and  forgive  me,  Mr.  Wynne— although  I  can't 
forgive  her! — that  dreadful  illness  of  poor  Willy's — 
that  bitter  time  in  Paris.  .  .  ." 

And  Mrs.  Bagot  began  to  cry,  and  Taffy  forgave. 
"  Oh,  Mr.  Wynne — let  us  still  hope  that  there's  some 
mistake  —  that  it's  only  somebody  like  her!  Why, 
she's  coming  to  sing  in  London  after  Christmas !  My 
poor  boy's  infatuation  will  only  increase.  What  shall 
I  do?" 

"Well  —  she's  another  man's  wife,  you  see.  So 
Willy's  infatuation  is  bound  to  burn  itself  out  as  soon 
as  he  fully  recognizes  that  important  fact.  Besides, 
she  cut  him  dead  in  the  Champs  £lysees  —  and  her 
husband  and  Willy  had  a  row  next  day  at  the  hotel, 
and  cuffed  and  kicked  each  other — that's  rather  a  bar 
to  any  future  intimacy,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Wynne !  my  son  cuffing  and  kicking  a 
man  whose  wife  he's  in  love  with  !  Good  heavens !" 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  right — the  man  had  grossly  insulted 
him  —  and  Willy  behaved  like  a  brick,  and  got  the 
best  of  it  in  the  end,  and  nothing  came  of  it.  I  saw 
it  all." 

" Oh,  Mr.  Wynne — and  you  didn't  interfere?" 

"Oh  yes,  I  interfered  —  everybody  interfered.  It 
was  all  right,  I  assure  you.  No  bones  were  broken 


'1 


"  I   SUPPOSE    YOU    DO    ALL    THIS    KIND    OF    THING   FOR    MERE 
AMUSEMENT,  MR.  WYNNE  ?" 

on  either  side,  and  there  was  no  nonsense  about  calling 
out,  or  swords  or  pistols,  and  all  that." 

"  Thank  Heaven !" 

In  a  week  or  two  Little  Billee  grew  more  like  him- 
self again,  and  painted  endless  studies  of  rocks  and 
cliffs  and  sea  —  and  Taify  painted  with  him,  and  was 
very  content.  The  vicar  and  Little  Billee  patched  up 
their  feud.  The  vicar  also  took  an  immense  fancy  to 
Taffy,  whose  cousin,  Sir  Oscar  Wynne,  he  had  known. 


868 

at  college,  and  lost  no  opportunity  of  being  hospitable 
and  civil  to  him.  And  his  daughter  was  away  in 
Algiers. 

And  all  "  the  nobility  and  gentry  "  of  the  neighbor- 
hood,  including  "the  poor  dear  marquis"  (one  of 
whose  sons  was  in  Taffy's  old  regiment),  were  civil 
and  hospitable  also  to  the  two  painters  —  and  Taffy 
got  as  much  sport  as  he  wanted,  and  became  immense- 
ly popular.  And  they  had,  on  the  whole,  a  very  good 
time  till  Christmas,  and  a  very  pleasant  Christmas,  if 
not  an  exuberantly  merry  one. 

After  Christmas  Little  Billee  insisted  on  going  back 
to  London — to  paint  a  picture  for  the  Royal  Acade- 
my; and  Taffy  went  with  him;  and  there  was  dul- 
ness  in  the  house  of  Bagot — and  many  misgivings  in 
the  maternal  heart  of  its  mistress. 

And  people  of  all  kinds,  high  and  low,  from  the 
family  at  the  Court  to  the  fishermen  on  the  little  pier 
and  their  wives  and  children,  missed  the  two  genial 
painters,  who  were  the  friends  of  everybody,  and  made 
such  beautiful  sketches  of  their  beautiful  coast. 


La  Svengali  has  arrived  in  London.  Her  name  is 
in  every  mouth.  Her  photograph  is  in  the  shop-win- 
dows. She  is  to  sing  at  J—  — 's  monster  concerts 
next  week.  She  was  to  have  sung  sooner,  but  it  seems 
some  hitch  has  occurred — a  quarrel  between  Monsieur 
Svengali  and  his  first  violin,  who  is  a  very  important 
person. 

A  crowd  of  people  as  usual,  only  bigger,  is  assem- 
bled in  front  of  the  windows  of  the  Stereoscopic  Com- 


369 

pany  in  Regent  Street,  gazing  at  presentments  of 
Madame  Sevengali  in  all  sizes  and  costumes.  She  is 
very  beautiful — there  is  no  doubt  of  that ;  and  the 
expression  of  her  face  is  sweet  and  kind  and  sad,  and 
of  such  a  distinction  that  one  feels  an  imperial  crown 
would  become  her  even  better  than  her  modest  little 
coronet  of  golden  stars.  One  of  the  photographs  rep- 
resents her  in  classical  dress,  with  her  left  foot  on  a 
little  stool,  in  something  of  the  attitude  of  the  Venus 
of  Milo,  except  that  her  hands  are  clasped  behind  her 
back  ;  and  the  foot  is  bare  but  for  a  Greek  sandal,  and 
so  smooth  and  delicate  and  charming,  and  with  so 
rhythmical  a  set  and  curl  of  the  five  slender  toes  (the 
big  one  slightly  tip -tilted  and  well  apart  from  its 
longer  and  slighter  and  more  aquiline  neighbor),  that 
this  presentment  of  her  sells  quicker  than  all  the  rest. 

And  a  little  man  who,  with  two  bigger  men,  has 
just  forced  his  way  in  front  says  to  one  of  his  friends : 
"  Look,  Sandy,  look  —  the  foot  !  Now  have  you  got 
any  doubts  ?" 

"  Oh  yes  —  those  are  Trilby's  toes,  sure  enough !" 
says  Sandy.  And  they  all  go  in  and  purchase  largely. 

As  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  discover,  the  row  be- 
tween Svengali  and  his  first  violin  had  occurred  at  a 
rehearsal  in  Drury  Lane  Theatre. 

Svengali,  it  seems,  had  never  been  quite  the  same 
since  the  15th  of  October  previous,  and  that  was  the 
day  he  had  got  his  face  slapped  and  his  nose  tweaked 
by  Taffy  in  Paris.  He  had  become  short-tempered 
and  irritable,  especially  with  his  wife  (if  she  was  his 
wife).  Svengali,  it  seems,  had  reasons  for  passionately 
hating  Little  Billee. 


870 

He  had  not  seen  him  for  five  years  —  not  since  the 
Christmas  festivity  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole,  when 
they  had  sparred  together  after  supper,  and  Svengali's 
nose  had  got  in  the  way  on  this  occasion,  and  had 
been  made  to  bleed  ;  but  that  was  not  why  he  hated 
Little  Billee. 

When  he  caught  sight  of  him  standing  on  the  curb 
in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  and  watching  the  proces 
sion  of  "  tout  Paris,"  he  knew  him  directly,  and  all  his 
hate  flared  up ;  he  cut  him  dead,  and  made  his  wife 
do  the  same. 

Next  morning  he  saw  him  again  in  the  hotel  post- 
office,  looking  small  and  weak  and  flurried,  and  appar- 
ently alone ;  and  being  an  Oriental  Israelite  Hebrew 
Jew,  he  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the  temptation 
of  spitting  in  his  face,  since  he  must  not  throttle  him 
to  death. 

The  minute  he  had  done  this  he  had  regretted  the 
folly  of  it.  Little  Billee  had  run  after  him,  and  kicked 
and  struck  him,  and  he  had  returned  the  blow  and 
drawn  blood;  and  then,  suddenly  and  quite  unexpect- 
edly, had  come  upon  the  scene  that  apparition  so 
loathed  and  dreaded  of  old  —  the  pig-headed  York- 
shireman  —  the  huge  British  philistine,  the  irresponsi- 
ble bull,  the  junker,  the  ex  Crimean,  Front-de-Bceuf, 
who  had  always  reminded  him  of  the  brutal  and  con- 
temptuous sword-clanking,  spur-jingling  aristocrats  of 
his  own  country — ruffians  that  treated  Jews  like  dogs. 
Callous  as  he  was  to  the  woes  of  others,  the  self- 
indulgent  and  highly -strung  musician  was  extra  sensi- 
tive about  himself  —  a  very  bundle  of  nerves  —  and 
especially  sensitive  to  pain  and  rough  usage,  and  by 


871 

no  means  physically  brave.  The  stern,  choleric,  in- 
vincible blue  eye  of  the  hated  Northern  gentile  had 
cowed  him  at  once.  And  that  violent  tweaking  of 
his  nose,  that  heavy  open-handed  blow  on  his  face, 
had  so  shaken  and  demoralized  him  that  he  had  never 
recovered  from  it. 

He  was  thinking  about  it  always  —  night  and  day 
— and  constantly  dreaming  at  night  that  he  was  be- 
ing tweaked  and  slapped  over  again  by  a  colossal 
nightmare  Taffy,  and  waking  up  in  agonies  of  terror, 
rage,  and  shame.  All  healthy  sleep  had  forsaken 
him. 

Moreover,  he  was  much  older  than  he  looked — 
nearly  fifty — and  far  from  sound.  His  life  had  been 
a  long,  hard  struggle. 

He  had  for  his  wife,  slave,  and  pupil  a  fierce,  jeal- 
ous kind  of  affection  that  was  a  source  of  endless  tor- 
ment to  him ;  for  indelibly  graven  in  her  heart,  which 
he  wished  to  occupy  alone,  was  the  never-fading  im- 
age of  the  little  English  painter,  and  of  this  she  made 
no  secret. 

Gecko  no  longer  cared  for  the  master.  All  Gecko's 
doglike  devotion  was  concentrated  on  the  slave  and 
pupil,  whom  he  worshipped  with  a  fierce  but  pure 
and  unselfish  passion.  The  only  living  soul  that 
Svengali  could  trust  was  the  old  Jewess  who  lived 
with  them  —  his  relative  —  but  even  she  had  come  to 
love  the  pupil  as  much  as  the  master. 

On  the  occasion  of  this  rehearsal  at  Drury  Lane  he 
(Svengali)  was  conducting  and  Madame  Svengali  was 
singing.  He  interrupted  her  several  times,  angrily 
most  unjustly,  and  told  her  she  was  singing  out 


872 

of  tune,  "  like  a  verfluchter  tomcat,"  which  was  quite 
untrue.  She  was  singing  beautifully,  "  Home,  Sweet 
Home." 

Finally  he  struck  her  two  or  three  smart  blows  on 
her  knuckles  with  his  little  baton,  and  she  fell  on  her 
knees,  weeping  and  crying  out : 

"  Oh !  oh !  Svengali !  ne  me  battez  pas,  mon  ami — 
je  fais  tout  ce  que  je  peux !" 

On  which  little  Gecko  had  suddenly  jumped  up  and 
struck  Svengali  on  the  neck  near  the  collar-bone,  and 
then  it  was  seen  that  he  had  a  little  bloody  knife  in 
his  hand,  and  blood  flowed  from  Svengali's  neck,  and 
at  the  sight  of  it  Svengali  had  fainted ;  and  Madame 
Svengali  had  taken  his  head  on  her  lap,  looking  dazed 
and  stupefied,  as  in  a  waking  dream. 

Gecko  had  been  disarmed,  but  as  Svengali  recov- 
ered from  his  faint  and  was  taken  home,  the  police 
had  not  been  sent  for,  and  the  affair  was  hushed  up, 
and  a  public  scandal  avoided.  But  la  Svengali's  first 

appearance,  to  Monsieur  J 's  despair,  had  to  be 

put  off  for  a  week.  For  Svengali  would  not  allow 
her  to  sing  without  him ;  nor,  indeed,  would  he  be 
parted  from  her  for  a  miuute,  or  trust  her  out  of  his 
sight. 

The  wound  was  a  slight  one.  The  doctor  who  at- 
tended Svengali  described  the  wife  as  being  quite  im- 
becile, no  doubt  from  grief  and  anxiety.  But  she 
never  left  her  husband's  bedside  for  a  moment,  and 
had  the  obedience  and  devotion  of  a  dog. 

When  the  night  came  round  for  the  postponed  de- 
but, Svengali  was  allowed  by  the  doctor  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  but  he  was  absolutely  forbidden  to  conduct 


874 

His  grief  and  anxiety  at  this  were  uncontrollable ;  he 
raved  like  a  madman ;  and  Monsieur  J—  -  was  al- 
most as  bad. 

Monsieur  J—  -  had  been  conducting  the  Sven- 
gali  band  at  rehearsals  during  the  week,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  its  master — an  easy  task.  It  had  been  so 
thoroughly  drilled  and  knew  its  business  so  well  that  it 
could  almost  conduct  itself,  and  it  had  played  all  the 
music  it  had  to  play  (much  of  which  consisted  of  accom- 
paniments to  la  Svengali's  songs)  many  times  before. 
Her  repertoire  was  immense,  and  Svengali  had  written 
these  orchestral  scores  with  great  care  and  felicity. 

On  the  famous  night  it  was  arranged  that  Svengali 
should  sit  in  a  box  alone,  exactly  opposite  his  wife's 
place  on  the  platform,  where  she  could  see  him  well ; 
and  a  code  of  simple  signals  was  arranged  between  him 

and  Monsieur  J and  the  band,  so  that  virtually 

he  might  conduct,  himself,  from  his  box  should  any 
hesitation  or  hitch  occur.  This  arrangement  was  re- 
hearsed the  day  before  (a  Sunday)  and  had  turned 
out  quite  successfully,  and  la  Svengali  had  sung  in 
perfection  in  the  empty  theatre. 

When  Monday  evening  arrived  everything  seemed 
to  be  going  smoothly ;  the  house  was  soon  crammed 
to  suffocation,  all  but  the  middle  box  on  the  grand 
tier.  It  was  not  a  promenade  concert,  and  the  pit 
was  turned  into  guinea  stalls  (the  promenade  concerts 
were  to  be  given  a  week  later). 

Right  in  the  middle  of  these  stalls  sat  the  Laird 
and  Taffy  and  Little  Billee. 

The  band  came  in  by  degrees  and  tuned  their  in- 
struments. 


375 


Eyes  were  constantly  being  turned  to  the  empty 
box,  and  people  wondered  what  royal  personages 
would  appear. 

Monsieur  J took  his  place  amid  immense  ap- 
plause, and  bowed  in  his  inimitable  way,  looking  often 
at  the  empty  box. 

Then  he  tapped  and  waved  his  baton,  and  the  band 
played  its  Hungarian  dance  music  with  immense  suc- 
cess ;  when  this  was  over  there  was  a  pause,  and  soon 
some  signs  of  impatience  from  the  gallery.  Monsieur 
J—  -  had  disappeared. 

Taffy  stood  up,  his  back  to  the  orchestra,  looking 
round. 

Some  one  came  into  the  empty  box,  and  stood  for 
a  moment  in  front,  gazing  at  the  house.  A  tall 
man,  deathly  pale,  with  long  black  hair  and  a  beard. 

It  was  Svengali. 

He  caught  sight 
of  Taffy  and  met 
his  eyes,  and  Taffy 
said:  "Good  God! 
Look!  look!" 

Then  Little  Bil- 
lee  and  the  Laird 
got  up  and  looked. 

And  Svengali  for 
a  moment  glared  at 
them.  And  the  ex- 
pression of  his  face 
was  so  terrible  with 
wonder,  rage,  and 
fear  that  they  were 


"HAST  THOU  FOUND  ME,  o  MINK  ENEMY?" 


376 

quite  appalled — and  then  he  sat  down,  still  glaring  at 
Taffy,  the  whites  of  his  eyes  showing  at  the  top,  and 
his  teeth  bared  in  a  spasmodic  grin  of  hate. 

Then  thunders  of  applause  filled  the  house,  and 
turning  round  and  seating  themselves,  Taffy  and  Lit- 
tle Billee  and  the  Laird  saw  Trilby  being  led  by  J— 
down  the  platform,  between  the  players,  to  the  front, 
her  face  smiling  rather  vacantly,  her  eyes  anxiously 
intent  on  Svengali  in  his  box. 

She  made  her  bows  to  right  and  left  just  as  she  had 
done  in  Paris. 

The  band  struck  up  the  opening  bars  of  "  Ben  Bolt," 
with  which  she  was  announced  to  make  her  debut. 

She  still  stared  —  but  she  didn't  sing — and  they 
played  the  little  symphony  three  times. 

One  could  hear  Monsieur  J in  a  hoarse,  anxious 

whisper  saying, 

"Mais  chantez  done,  madame  —  pour  1'amour  de 
Dieu,  commencez  done — commencez !" 

She  turned  round  with  an  extraordinary  expression 
of  face,  and  said, 

"  Chanter  ?  pourquoi  done  voulez-vous  que  je  chante, 
moi  ?  chanter  quoi,  alors  ?" 

"  Mais  '  Ben  Bolt,'  parbleu — chantez !" 

"  Ah — '  Ben  Bolt !'  oui — je  connais  §a !" 

Then  the  band  began  again. 

And  she  tried,  but  failed  to  begin  herself.     She 
turned  round  and  said, 

"  Comment  diable  voulez-vous  que  je  chante  avec 
tout  ce  train  qu'ils  font,  ces  diables  de  musiciens !" 

"  Mais,  mon  Dieu,  madame — qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez 
done  ?"  cried  Monsieur  J . 


878 

"J'ai  que  j'airae  mieux  chanter  sans  toute  cette 
satanee  musique,  parbleu!  J'airae  mieux  chanter 
toute  seule !" 

"  Sans  musique,  alors — mais  chantez — chantez !" 

The  band  was  stopped — the  house  was  in  a  state  of 
indescribable  wonder  and  suspense. 

She  looked  all  round,  and  down  at  herself,  and  fin- 
gered her  dress.  Then  she  looked  up  to  the  chande- 
lier with  a  tender,  sentimental  smile,  and  began : 

"Oh,  don't  you  remember  sweet  Alice,  Ben  Bolt? 

Sweet  Alice  with  Lair  so  brown, 
Who  wept  with  delight  when  you  gave  her  a  smile — " 

She  had  not  got  further  than  this  when  the  whole 
house  was  in  an  uproar — shouts  from  the  gallery- 
shouts  of  laughter,  hoots,  hisses,  catcalls,  cock-crows. 

She  stopped  and  glared  like  a  brave  lioness,  and 
called  out : 

"  Qu'est-ce  que  vous  avez  done,  tous !  tas  de  vieilles 
pommes  cuites  que  vous  etes !  Est-ce  qu'on  a  peur  de 
vous  ?"  and  then,  suddenly : 

"Why,  you're  all  English,  aren't  you? — what's  all 
the  row  about? — what  have  you  brought  me  here  for  ? 
—what  have  /done,  I  should  like  to  know?" 

And  in  asking  these  questions  the  depth  and  splen- 
dor of  her  voice  were  so  extraordinary — its  tone  so 
pathetically  feminine,  yet  so  full  of  hurt  and  indignant 
command,  that  the  tumult  was  stilled  for  a  moment. 

It  was  the  voice  of  some  being  from  another  world 
—some  insulted  daughter  of  a  race  more  puissant  and 
nobler  than  ours ;  a  voice  that  seemed  as  if  it  could 
never  utter  a  false  note. 


879 

Then  came  a  voice  from  the  gods  in  answer : 

"  Oh,  ye're  Henglish,  har  yer  ?  Why  don't  yer  sing 
as  yer  hought  to  sing — yer've  got  voice  enough,  any- 
'ovv  !  why  don't  yer  sing  in  tune?" 

"  Sing  in  tune  /"  cried  Trilby.  "  I  didn't  want  to 
sing  at  all — I  only  sang  because  I  was  asked  to  sing — 
that  gentleman  asked  me — that  French  gentleman  with 
the  white  waistcoat !  I  won't  sing  another  note !" 

"  Oh,  yer  won't,  won't  yer !  then  let  us  'ave  our 
money  back,  or  we'll  know  what  for !" 

And  again  the  din  broke  out,  and  the  uproar  was 
frightful. 

Monsieur  J screamed  out  across  the  theatre: 

"  Svengali !  Svengali !  qu'est-ce  qu'elle  a  done,  votre 
femme  ?  .  .  .  Elle  est  devenue  folle !" 

Indeed  she  had  tried  to  sing  "  Ben  Bolt,"  but  had 
sung  it  in  her  old  way — as  she  used  to  sing  it  in  the 
quartier  latin  —  the  most  lamentably  grotesque  per- 
formance ever  heard  out  of  a  human  throat ! 

"Svengali!  Svengali!"  shrieked  poor  Monsieur  J , 

gesticulating  towards  the  box  where  Svengali  was  sit- 
ting, quite  impassible,  gazing  at  Monsieur  J ,  and 

smiling  a  ghastly,  sardonic  smile,  a  rictus  of  hate  and 
triumphant  revenge — as  if  he  were  saying, 

"  I've  got  the  laugh  of  you  all,  this  time !" 

Taffy,  the  Laird,  Little  Billee,  the  whole  house,  were 
now  staring  at  Svengali,  and  his  wife  was  forgotten. 

She  stood  vacantly  looking  at  everybody  and  every- 
thing— the  chandelier,  Monsieur  J ,  Svengali  in  his 

box,  the  people  in  the  stalls,  in  the  gallery — and  smil- 
ing as  if  the  noisy  scene  amused  and  excited  her. 

"  Svengali !  Svengali !  Svengali !" 


880 

The  whole  house  took  up  the  cry,  derisively.  Mon- 
sieur J—  -  led  Madame  Svengali  away ;  she  seemed 
quite  passive.  That  terrible  figure  of  Svengali  still 
sat,  immovable,  watching  his  wife's  retreat — still  smil- 
ing his  ghastly  smile.  All  eyes  were  now  turned  on 
him  once  more. 

Monsieur  J—  -  was  then  seen  to  enter  his  box  with 
a  policeman  and  two  or  three  other  men,  one  of  them 
in  evening  dress.  He  quickly  drew  the  curtains  to; 
then,  a  minute  or  two  after,  he  reappeared  on  the  plat- 
form, bowing  and  scraping  to  the  audience,  as  pale  as 
death,  and  called  for  silence,  the  gentleman  in  even- 
ing dress  by  his  side;  and  this  person  explained  that 
a  very  dreadful  thing  had  happened — that  Monsieur 
Svengali  had  suddenly  died  in  that  box — of  apoplexy 
or  heart-disease ;  that  his  wife  had  seen  it  from  her 
place  on  the  stage,  and  had  apparently  gone  out  of 
her  senses,  which  accounted  for  her  extraordinary  be- 
havior. 

He  added  that  the  money  would  be  returned  at  the 
doors,  and  begged  the  audience  to  disperse  quietly. 

Taffy,  with  his  two  friends  behind  him,  forced  his 
way  to  a  stage  door  he  knew.  The  Laird  had  no 
longer  any  doubts  on  the  score  of  Trilby's  identity 
—this  Trilby,  at  all  events ! 

Taffy  knocked  and  thumped  till  the  door  was  opened, 
and  gave  his  card  to  the  man  who  opened  it,  stating 
that  he  and  his  friends  were  old  friends  of  Madame 
Svengali,  and  must  see  her  at  once. 

The  man  tried  to  slam  the  door  in  his  face,  but 
Taffy  pushed  through,  and  shut  it  on  the  crowd  out- 
side, and  insisted  on  being  taken  to  Monsieur  J 


381* 

immediately;  and  was  so  authoritative  and  big,  and 
looked  such  a  swell,  that  the  man  was  cowed,  and 
led  him. 

They  passed  an  open  door,  through  which  they  had 
a  glimpse  of  a  prostrate  form  on  a  table — a  man  par- 
tially undressed,  and  some  men  bending  over  him,  doc- 
tors probably. 

That  was  the  last  they  saw  of  Svengali. 

Then  they  were  taken  to  another  door,  and  Monsieur 

J came  out,  and  Taffy  explained  who  they  were, 

and  they  were  admitted. 

La  Svengali  was  there,  sitting  in  an  arm-chair  by 
the  fire,  with  several  of  the  band  standing  round  ges- 
ticulating, and  talking  German  or  Polish  or  Yiddish. 
Gecko,  on  his  knees,  was  alternately  chafing  her  hands 
and  feet.  She  seemed  quite  dazed. 

But  at  the  sight  of  Taffy  she  jumped  up  and  rushed 
at  him,  saying :  "  Oh,  Taffy  dear — oh,  Taffy !  what's 
it  all  about  ?  Where  on  earth  am  I  ?  What  an  age 
since  we  met  ?" 

Then  she  caught  sight  of  the  Laird,  and  kissed  him ; 
and  then  she  recognized  Little  Billee. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  long  while  in  great  surprise, 
and  then  shook  hands  with  him. 

"  How  pale  you  are !  and  so  changed — you've  got 
a  mustache!  What's  the  matter?  Why  are  you  all 
dressed  in  black,  with  white  cravats,  as  if  you  were 
going  to  a  ball?  Where's  Svengali  ?  I  should  like  to 
go  home !" 

"  Where — what  do  you  call — home,  I  mean — where 
is  it?"  asked  Taffy. 

"  (Test  a  1'hotel  de  Normandie,  dans  le  Haymarket. 


882 

On  va  vous  y  conduire,  raadame!"  said  Monsieur 
J--. 

"  Oui— c'est  ca !"  said  Trilby — "  Hotel  de  Norman 
die — raais  Svengali — oil  est-ce  qu'il  est  ?" 

"  Ilelas !  madarae — il  est  tres  raalade  1" 

"  Malade  ?  Qu'est-ce  qu'il  a  ?  How  funny  you  look, 
with  your  mustache,  Little  Billee!  dear,  dear  Little 
Billee!  so  pale,  so  very  pale!  Are  you  ill  too?  Oh, 
I  hope  not!  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  again — you 
can't  tell !  though  I  promised  your  mother  I  wouldn't 
—never,  never !  Where  are  we  now,  dear  Little  Bil- 
lee?" 

Monsieur  J seemed  to  have  lost  his  head.    He 

was  constantly  running  in  and  out  of  the  room,  dis- 
tracted. The  bandsmen  began  to  talk  and  try  to  ex- 
plain, in  incomprehensible  French,  to  Taffy.  Gecko 
seemed  to  have  disappeared.  It  was  a  bewildering 
business — noises  from  outside,  the  tramp  and  bustle 
and  shouts  of  the  departing  crowd,  people  running  in 

and  out  and  asking  for  Monsieur  J ,  policemen, 

firemen,  and  what  not ! 

Then  Little  Billee,  who  had  been  exerting  the  most 
heroic  self-control,  suggested  that  Trilby  should  come 
to  his  house  in  Fitzroy  Square,  first  of  all,  and  be  taken 
out  of  all  this — and  the  idea  struck  Taffy  as  a  happy 

one — and  it  was  proposed  to  Monsieur  J ,  who  saw 

that  our  three  friends  were  old  friends  of  Madame 
Svengali's,  and  people  to  be  trusted ;  and  he  was  only 
too  glad  to  be  relieved  of  her,  and  gave  his  consent. 

Little  Billee  and  Taffy  drove  to  Fitzroy  Square  to 
prepare  Little  Billee's  landlady,  who  was  much  put 
out  at  first  at  having  such  a  novel  and  unexpected 


884 

charge  imposed  on  her.  It  was  all  explained  to  her 
that  it  must  be  so.  That  Madame  Svengali,  the  great- 
est singer  in  Europe  and  an  old  friend  of  her  tenant's, 
had  suddenly  gone  out  of  her  mind  from  grief  at  the 
tragic  death  of  her  husband,  and  that  for  this  night 
at  least  the  unhappy  lady  must  sleep  under  that  roof — 
indeed,  in  Little  Billee's  own  bed,  and  that  he  would 
sleep  at  a  hotel ;  and  that  a  nurse  would  be  provided 
at  once — it  might  be  only  for  that  one  night ;  and 
that  the  lady  was  as  quiet  as  a  lamb,  and  would  prob- 
ably recover  her  faculties  after  a  night's  rest.  A  doc- 
tor was  sent  for  from  close  by ;  and  soon  Trilby  ap- 
peared, with  the  Laird,  and  her  appearance  and  her 
magnificent  sables  impressed  Mrs.  Godwin,  the  land- 
lady— brought  her  figuratively  on  her  knees.  Then 
Taffy,  the  Laird,  and  Little  Billee  departed  again  and 
dispersed — to  procure  a  nurse  for  the  night,  to  find 
Gecko,  to  fetch  some  of  Trilby's  belongings  from  the 
Hotel  de  Normandie,  and  her  maid. 

The  maid  (the  old  German  Jewess  and  Svengali's 
relative),  distracted  by  the  news  of  her  master's  death, 
had  gone  to  the  theatre.  Gecko  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  police.  Things  had  got  to  a  terrible  pass.  But 
our  three  friends  did  their  best,  and  were  up  most  of 
the  night. 

So  much  for  la  Svengali's  debut  in  London. 

The  present  scribe  was  not  present  on  that  memo- 
rable occasion,  and  has  written  this  inadequate  and 
most  incomplete  description  partly  from  hearsay  and 
private  information,  partly  from  the  reports  in  the 
contemporary  newspapers. 

Should  any  surviving  eye-witness  of  that  lamentable 


385 

fiasco  read  these  pages,  and  see  any  gross  inaccuracy 
in  this  bald  account  of  it,  the  P.  S.  will  feel  deeply 
obliged  to  the  same  for  any  corrections  or  additions, 
and  these  will  be  duly  acted  upon  and  gratefully  ac- 
knowledged in  all  subsequent  editions ;  which  will  be 
numerous,  no  doubt,  on  account  of  the  great  interest 
still  felt  in  "la  Svengali,"  even  by  those  who  never 
saw  or  heard  her  (and  they  are  many),  and  also  be- 
cause the  present  scribe  is  better  qualified  (by  his  op- 
portunities) for  the  compiling  of  this  brief  biographical 
sketch  than  any  person  now  living,  with  the  exception, 
of  course,  of  "  Taffy  "  and  "  the  Laird,"  to  whose  kind- 
ness, even  more  than  to  his  own  personal  recollections, 
he  owes  whatever  it  may  contain  of  serious  historical 
value. 

Next  morning  they  all  three  went  to  Fitzroy  Square. 
Little  Billee  had  slept  at  Taffy's  rooms  in  Jermyn 
Street. 

Trilby  seemed  quite  pathetically  glad  to  see  them 
again.  She  was  dressed  simply  and  plainly — in  black ; 
her  trunks  had  been  sent  from  the  hotel. 

The  hospital  nurse  was  with  her ;  the  doctor 
had  just  left.  He  had  said  that  she  was  suffering 
from  some  great  nervous  shock — a  pretty  safe  diag- 
nosis ! 

Her  wits  had  apparently  not  come  back,  and  she 
seemed  in  no  way  to  realize  her  position. 

"Ah!  what  it  is  to  see  you  again,  all  three!  It 
makes  one  feel  glad  to  be  alive!  I've  thought  of 
many  things,  but  never  of  this — never!  Three  nice 
clean  Englishmen,  all  speaking  English — and  such  dear 


'THREE    NICE    CLEAN    ENGLISHMEN 


old  friends!  Ah!  j'aime  tant  £a —  c'est  le  ciel!  I 
wonder  I've  got  a  word  of  English  left !" 

Her  voice  was  so  soft  and  sweet  and  low  that  these 
ingenuous  remarks  sounded  like  a  beautiful  song. 
And  she  "made  the  soft  eyes"  at  them  all  three,  one 
after  another,  in  her  old  way;  and  the  soft  eyes 
quickly  filled  with  tears. 

She  seemed  ill  and  weak  and  worn  out,  and  insisted 
on  keeping  the  Laird's  hand  in  hers. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  Svengali  ?  He  must  be 
dead !" 

They  all  three  looked  at  each  other,  perplexed. 


887 

"  Ah  !  he's  dead  !  I  can  see  it  in  your  faces.  He'd 
got  heart-disease.  I'm  sorry !  oh,  very  sorry  indeed ! 
He  was  always  very  kind,  poor  Svengali !" 

"  Yes.    He's  dead,"  said  Taffy. 

"And  Gecko — dear  little  Gecko — is  he  dead  too? 
I  saw  him  last  night — he  warmed  my  hands  and  feet : 
where  were  we  ?" 

"  No.  Gecko's  not  dead.  But  he's  had  to  be  locked 
up  for  a  little  while.  He  struck  Svengali,  you  know. 
You  saw  it  all." 

"  I  ?  No !  I  never  saw  it.  But  I  dreamt  some- 
thing like  it !  Gecko  with  a  knife,  and  people  holding 
him,  and  Svengali  bleeding  on  the  ground.  That  was 
just  before  Svengali's  illness.  He'd  cut  himself  in  the 
neck,  you  know  —  with  a  rusty  nail,  he  told  me.  I 
wonder  how !  .  .  .  But  it  was  wrong  of  Gecko  to  strike 
him.  They  were  such  friends.  Why  did  he  ?" 

"  Well — it  was  because  Svengali  struck  you  with  his 
conductor's  wand  when  you  were  rehearsing.  Struck 
you  on  the  fingers  and  made  you  cry !  don't  you  re- 
member ?" 

"  Struck  me  !  rehearsing? — made  me  cry  !  what  are 
you  talking  about,  dear  Taffy  ?  Svengali  never  struck 
me !  he  was  kindness  itself !  always  !  and  what  should 
1  rehearse  ?" 

"  Well,  the  songs  you  vvere  to  sing  at  the  theatre  in 
the  evening." 

"  Sing  at  the  theatre !  /  never  sang  at  any  theatre 
— except  last  night,  if  that  big  place  was  a  theatre ! 
and  they  didn't  seem  to  like  it !  I'll  take  precious 
good  care  never  to  sing  in  a  theatre  again!  How 
they  howled !  and  there  was  Svengali  in  the  box  op- 


posite,  laughing  at  me.  Why  was  I  taken  there  ?  and 
why  did  that  funny  little  Frenchman  in  the  white 
waistcoat  ask  me  to  sing?  I  know  very  well  I  can't 
sing  well  enough  to  sing  in  a  place  like  that!  What 
a  fool  I  was  1  It  all  seems  like  a  bad  dream  !  What 
was  it  all  about?  Was  it  a  dream,  I  wonder !" 

"  Well — but  don't  you  remember  singing  at  Paris, 
in  the  Salle  des  Bashibazoucks — and  at  Vienna — St. 
Petersburg — lots  of  places  ?" 

"  What  nonsense,  dear — you're  thinking  of  some 
one  else !  /  never  sang  anywhere !  I've  been  to 
Vienna  and  St.  Petersburg — but  I  never  sang  there — 
good  heavens !" 

Then  there  was  a  pause,  and  our  three  friends 
looked  at  her  helplessly. 

Little  Billee  said  :  "Tell  me,  Trilby  —  what  made 
you  cut  me  dead  when  I  bowed  to  you  in  the  Place 
de  la  Concorde,  and  you  were  riding  with  Svengali  in 
that  swell  carriage  ?" 

"  /  never  rode  in  a  swell  carriage  with  Svengali ! 
omnibuses  were  more  in  our  line  !  You're  dreaming, 
dear  Little  Billee  —  you're  taking  me  for  somebody 
else ;  and  as  for  my  cutting  you — why,  I'd  sooner  cut 
myself — into  little  pieces  !" 

"  Where  were  you  staying  with  Svengali  in  Paris?" 

"  I  really  forget.  Were  we  in  Paris.  Oh  yes,  of 
course.  Hotel  Bertrand,  Place  Notre  Dame  des  Vic- 
toires." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  going  about  with  Sven- 

gain" 

"  Oh,  months,  years — I  forget.  I  was  very  ill.  He 
cured  me." 


889 


"  111 !    What  was  the  matter  I" 

"  Oh !  I  was  mad  with  grief,  and  pain  in  my  eyes, 
and  wanted  to  kill  myself,  when  I  lost  my  dear  little 
Jeannot,  at  Vibraye. 
I  fancied  I  hadn't  been 
careful  enough  with 
him.  I  was  crazed  ! 
Don't  you  remember 
writing  to  me  there, 
Taffy  —  through  An- 
gele  Boisse  ?  Such  a 
sweet  letter  you  wrote ! 
I  know  it  by  heart  1 
And  you  too,  Sandy"; 
and  she  kissed  him. 
"  I  wonder  where  they 
are,  your  letters? — 
I've  got  nothing  of  my 
own  in  the  world — not 
even  your  dear  letters 
— nor  little  Billee's — 
such  lots  of  them  1 

"  Well,  Svengali  used 
to  write  to  me  too — 
and  then  he  got  my  ad- 


'  PffiNA    PEDE    CLAUDO  ' 


dress  from  Angele. . . . 

"  When  Jeannot  died,  I  felt  I  must  kill  myself  or 
get  away  from  Vibraye — get  away  from  the  people 
there — so  when  he  was  buried  I  cut  my  hair  short  and 
got  a  workman's  cap  and  blouse  and  trousers  and 
walked  all  the  way  to  Paris  without  saying  anything 

to  anybody.     I  didn't  want   anybody  to  know  ;    I 
36 


wanted  to  escape  from  Svengali,  who  wrote  that  he 
was  coming  there  to  fetch  me.  I  wanted  to  hide  in 
Paris.  When  I  got  there  at  last  it  was  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  and  I  was  in  dreadful  pain — and  I'd 
lost  all  my  money — thirty  francs — through  a  hole  in 
my  trousers -pocket.  Besides,  I  had  a  row  with  a 
carter  in  the  Halle.  He  thought  I  was  a  man,  and  hit 
me  and  gave  me  a  black  eye,  just  because  I  patted  his 
horse  and  fed  it  with  a  carrot  I'd  been  trying  to  eat 
myself.  He  was  tipsy,  I  think.  Well,  I  looked  over 
the  bridge  at  the  river — just  by  the  Morgue — and 
wanted  to  jump  in.  But  the  Morgue  sickened  me,  so 
I  hadn't  the  pluck.  Svengali  used  to  be  always  talk- 
ing about  the  Morgue,  and  my  going  there  some  day. 
He  used  to  say  he'd  come  and  look  at  me  there,  and 
the  idea  made  me  so  sick  I  couldn't.  I  got  bewildered, 
and  quite  stupid. 

"  Then  I  went  to  Angele's,  in  the  Rue  des  Cloitres 
Ste.  Petronille,  and  waited  about ;  but  I  hadn't  the 
courage  to  ring,  so  I  went  to  the  Place  St.  Anatole 
des  Arts,  and  looked  up  at  the  old  studio  window,  and 
thought  how  comfortable  it  was  in  there,  with  the  big 
settee  near  the  stove,  and  all  that,  and  felt  inclined  to 
ring  up  Madame  Vinard ;  and  then  I  remembered 
Little  Billee  was  ill  there,  and  his  mother  and  sister 
were  with  him.  Angele  had  written  me,  you  know. 
Poor  Little  Billee!  There  he  was,  very  ill ! 

"  So  I  walked  about  the  place,  and  up  and  down  the 
Rue  des  Mauvais  Ladres.  Then  I  went  down  the  Rue 
de  Seine  to  the  river  again,  and  again  I  hadn't  the 
pluck  to  jump  in.  Besides,  there  was  a  sergent  de 
ville  who  followed  and  watched  me.  And  the  fun  of 


391 


it  was  that  I  knew  him  quite  well,  and  he  didn't  know 
me  a  bit.  It  was  Celestin  Beaumollet,  who  got  so 
tipsy  on  Christmas  night.  Don't  you  remember  ?  The 
tall  one,  who  was  pitted  with  the  small-pox. 

"Then  I  walked  about  till  near  daylight.  Then 
I  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  went  to  Svengali's,  in 
the  Kue  Tireliard,  but  he'd  moved  to  the  Kue  des 
Saints  Peres;  and 
I  went  there  and 
found  him.  I  didn't 
want  to  a  bit,  but  I 
couldn't  help  myself. 
It  was  fate,  I  sup- 
pose !  He  was  very 
kind,  and  cured  me 
almost  directly,  and 
got  me  coffee  and 
bread  -  and  -  butter — 
the  best  I  ever  tasted 
— and  a  warm  bath 
from  Bidet  Freres,  in 
the  Kue  Savonarole. 
It  was  heavenly! 
And  I  slept  for  two 
days  and  two  nights! 
And  then  he  told  me 
how  fond  he  was  of 
me,  and  how  he 
would  always  cure 
me,  and  take  care  of 
me,  and  marry  me, 

if  I  would  go  away  "THE  OLD  STUDIO" 


392 

with  him.  He  said  he  would  devote  his  whole  life  to 
me,  and  took  a  small  room  for  me,  next  to  his. 

"  I  stayed  with  him  there  a  week,  never  going  out  or 
seeing  any  one,  mostly  asleep.  I'd  caught  a  chill. 

"He  played  in  two  concerts  and  made  a  lot  of 
money ;  and  then  we  went  away  to  Germany  to- 
gether; and  no  one  was  a  bit  the  wiser." 

"  And  did  he  marry  you  ?" 

"Well — no.  He  couldn't,  poor  fellow!  He'd  al- 
ready got  a  wife  living;  and  three  children,  which  he 
declared  were  not  his.  They  live  in  Elberfeld  in 
Prussia ;  she  keeps  a  small  sweet-stuflf  shop  there.  He 
behaved  very  badly  to  them.  But  it  was  not  through 
me !  He'd  deserted  them  long  before ;  but  he  used  to 
send  them  plenty  of  money  when  he'd  got  any ;  I 
made  him,  for  I  was  very  sorry  for  her.  He  was  al- 
ways talking  about  her,  and  what  she  said  and  what 
she  did ;  and  imitating  her  saying  her  prayers  and 
eating  pickled  cucumber  with  one  hand  and  drinking 
schnapps  with  the  other,  so  as  not  to  lose  any  time ; 
till  he  made  me  die  of  laughing.  He  could  be  very 
funny,  Svengali,  though  he  was  German,  poor  dear ! 
And  then  Gecko  joined  us,  and  Marta." 

"  Who's  Marta?" 

"  His  aunt.  She  cooked  for  us,  and  all  that.  She's 
coming  here  presently ;  she  sent  word  from  the  hotel ; 
she's  very  fond  of  him.  Poor  Marta!  Poor  Gecko! 
"What  will  they  ever  do  without  Svengali  ?" 

"Then  what  did  he  do  to  live?" 

"Oh!  he  played  at  concerts,  I  suppose  —  and  all 
that." 

"  Did  vou  ever  hear  him  ?" 


"Yes.  Sometimes  Marta  took  me;  at  the  begin- 
ning, you  know.  He  was  always  very  much  ap- 
plauded. He  plays  beautifully.  Everybody  said  so." 

"  Did  he  never  try  and  teach  you  to  sing  ?" 

"  Oh,  ma'ie,  aie !  not  he !  Why,  he  always  laughed 
when  I  tried  to  sing ;  and  so  did  Marta ;  and  so  did 
Gecko!  It  made  them  roar!  I  used  to  sing  '  Ben 
Bolt.'  They  used  to  make  me,  just  for  fun — and  go 
into  fits.  /  didn't  mind  a  scrap.  I'd  had  no  training, 
you  know !" 

"Was  there  anybody  else  he  knew  —  any  other 
woman  ?" 

"Not  that  1  know  of!  He  always  made  out  he 
was  so  fond  of  me  that  he  couldn't  even  look  at  an- 
other woman.  Poor  Svengali !"  (Here  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears  again.)  "  He  was  always  very  kind !  But 
I  never  could  be  fond  of  him  in  the  way  he  wished — 
never !  It  made  me  sick  even  to  think  of !  Once  I 
used  to  hate  him — in  Paris — in  the  studio  ;  don't  you 
remember  ? 

"  He  hardly  ever  left  me ;  and  then  Marta  looked 
after  me — for  I've  always  been  weak  and  ill  —  and 
often  so  languid  that  I  could  hardly  walk  across  the 
room.  It  was  that  walk  from  Yibraye  to  Paris.  I 
never  got  over  it. 

"  I  used  to  try  and  do  all  I  could — be  a  daughter  to 
him,  as  I  couldn't  be  anything  else — mend  his  things, 
and  all  that,  and  cook  him  little  French  dishes.  I 
fancy  he  was  very  poor  at  one  time ;  we  were  always 
moving  from  place  to  place.  But  I  always  had  the 
best  of  everything.  He  insisted  on  that — even  if  he 
had  to  go  without  himself.  It  made  him  quite  un- 


894 

happy  when  I  wouldn't  eat,  so  I  used  to  force  my- 
self. 

"  Then,  as  soon  as  I  felt  uneasy  about  things,  or 
had  any  pain,  he  would  say,  '  Dors,  raa  mignonne !' 
and  I  would  sleep  at  once — for  hours,  I  think — and 
wake  up,  oh,  so  tired!  and  find  him  kneeling  by  me, 
always  so  anxious  and  kind — and  Marta  and  Gecko! 
and  sometimes  we  had  the  doctor,  and  I  was  ill  in 
bed. 

"  Gecko  used  to  dine  and  breakfast  with  us — you've 
no  idea  what  an  angel  he  is,  poor  little  Gecko !  But 
what  a  dreadful  thing  to  strike  Svengali !  Why  did 
he  ?  Svengali  taught  him  all  he  knows !" 

"  And  you  knew  no  one  else — no  other  woman  ?" 

"No  one  that  I  can  remember — except  Marta — not 
a  soul !" 

"  And  that  beautiful  dress  you  had  on  last  night  ?" 

"  It  isn't  mine.  It's  on  the  bed  up-stairs,  and  so's 
the  fur  cloak.  They  belong  to  Marta.  She's  got  lots 
of  them,  lovely  things  —  silk,  satin,  velvet  —  and  lots 
of  beautiful  jewels.  Marta  deals  in  them,  and  makes 
lots  of  money. 

"I've  often  tried  them  on;  I'm  very  easy  to  fit,'' 
she  said,  "  being  so  tall  and  thin.  And  poor  Svengali 
would  kneel  down  and  cry,  and  kiss  my  hands  and 
feet,  and  tell  me  I  was  his  goddess  and  empress,  and 
all  that,  which  I  hate.  And  Marta  used  to  cry,  too. 
And  then  he  would  say, 

"  '  Et  maintenant  dors,  ma  mignonne  !' 

"  And  when  I  woke  up  I  was  so  tired  that  I  went  to 
sleep  again  on  my  own  account. 

"  But  he  was  very  patient.     Oh,  dear  me !  I've  al- 


896 

ways  been  a  poor,  helpless,  useless  log  and  burden  to 
him! 

"  Once  I  actually  walked  in  ray  sleep — and  woke  up 
in  the  market-place  at  Prague — and  found  an  immense 
crowd,  and  poor  Svengali  bleeding  from  the  forehead, 
in  a  faint  on  the  ground.  He'd  been  knocked  down 
by  a  horse  and  cart,  he  told  me.  He'd  got  his  guitar 
with  him.  I  suppose  he  and  Gecko  had  been  playing 
somewhere,  for  Gecko  had  his  fiddle.  If  Gecko  hadn't 
been  there,  I  don't  know  what  we  should  have  done. 
You  never  saw  such  queer  people  as  they  were — such 
crowds  —  you'd  think  they'd  never  seen  an  English- 
woman before.  The  noise  they  made,  and  the  things 
they  gave  me  .  .  .  some  of  them  went  down  on  their 
knees,  and  kissed  my  hands  and  the  skirts  of  my  gown. 

"He  was  ill  in  bed  for  a  week  after  that,  and  I 
nursed  him,  and  he  was  very  grateful.  Poor  Svengali ! 
God  knows  /  felt  grateful  to  him  for  many  things ! 
Tell  me  how  he  died !  I  hope  he  hadn't  much  pain." 

They  told  her  it  was  quite  sudden,  from  heart-dis- 
ease. 

"  Ah  1  I  knew  he  had  that ;  he  wasn't  a  healthy 
man ;  he  used  to  smoke  too  much.  Marta  used  always 
to  be  very  anxious." 

Just  then  Marta  came  in. 

Marta  was  a  fat,  elderly  Jewess  of  rather  a  grotesque 
and  ignoble  type.  She  seemed  overcome  with  grief — 
all  but  prostrate. 

Trilby  hugged  and  kissed  her,  and  took  off  her  bon- 
net and  shawl,  and  made  her  sit  down  in  a  big  arm- 
chair, and  got  her  a  footstool. 

She  couldn't  speak  a  word  of  anything  but  Polish 


897 

and  a  little  German.  Trilby  had  also  picked  up  a  little 
German,  and  with  this  and  by  means  of  signs,  and  no 
doubt  through  a  long  intimacy  with  each  other's  ways, 
they  understood  each  other  very  well.  She  seemed  a 
very  good  old  creature,  and  very  fond  of  Trilby,  but 
in  mortal  terror  of  the  three  Englishmen. 

Lunch  was  brought  up  for  the  two  women  and  the 
nurse,  and  our  friends  left  them,  promising  to  come 
again  that  day. 

They  were  utterly  bewildered  ;  and  the  Laird  would 
have  it  that  there  was  another  Madame  Svengali  some- 
where, the  real  one,  and  that  Trilby  was  a  fraud — self- 
deceived  and  self-deceiving — quite  unconsciously  so,  of 
course. 

Truth  looked  out  of  her  eyes,  as  it  always  had  done 
— truth  was  in  every  line  of  her  face. 

The  truth  only — nothing  but  the  truth  could  ever 
be  told  in  that  "voice  of  velvet,"  which  rang  as  true 
when  she  spoke  as  that  of  any  thrush  or  nightingale, 
however  rebellious  it  might  be  now  (and  forever  per- 
haps) to  artificial  melodic  laws  and  limitations  and  re- 
straints. The  long  training  it  had  been  subjected  to 
had  made  it  "  a  wonder,  a  world's  delight,"  and  though 
she  might  never  sing  another  note,  her  mere  speech 
would  always  be  more  golden  than  any  silence,  what- 
ever she  might  say. 

Except  on  the  one  particular  point  of  her  singing, 
she  had  seemed  absolutely  sane — so,  at  least,  thought 
Taffy,  the  Laird,  and  Little  Billee.  And  each  thought 
to  himself,  besides,  that  this  last  incarnation  of  Trilby- 
ness  was  quite  the  sweetest,  most  touching,  most  en- 
dearing of  all. 


They  had  not  failed  to  note  how  rapidly  she  had 
aged,  now  that  they  had  seen  her  without  her  rouge 
and  pearl-powder;  she  looked  thirty  at  least — she  was 
only  twenty-three. 

Her  hands  were  almost  transparent  in  their  waxen 
whiteness  ;  delicate  little  frosty  wrinkles  had  gathered 
round  her  eyes;  there  were  gray  streaks  in  her  hair; 
all  strength  and  straightness  and  elasticity  seemed  to 
have  gone  out  of  her  with  the  memory  of  her  endless 
triumphs  (if  she  really  was  la  Svengali),  and  of  her 
many  wanderings  from  city  to  city  all  over  Europe. 

It  was  evident  enough  that  the  sudden  stroke  which 
had  destroyed  her  power  of  singing  had  left  her  phys- 
ically a  wreck. 

But  she  was  one  of  those  rarely  gifted  beings  who 
cannot  look  or  speak  or  even  stir  without  waking  up 
(and  satisfying)  some  vague  longing  that  lies  dormant 
in  the  hearts  of  most  of  us,  men  and  women  alike ; 
grace,  charm,  magnetism — whatever  the  nameless  se- 
duction should  be  called  that  she  possessed  to  such  an 
unusual  degree — she  had  lost  none  of  it  when  she  lost 
her  high  spirits,  her  buoyant  health  and  energy,  her 
wits! 

Tuneless  and  insane,  she  was  more  of  a  siren  than 
ever  —  a  quite  unconscious  siren  —  without  any  guile, 
who  appealed  to  the  heart  all  the  more  directly  and 
irresistibly  that  she  could  no  longer  stir  the  passions. 

All  this  was  keenly  felt  by  all  three  —  each  in  his 
different  way — by  Taffy  and  Little  Billee  especially. 

All  her  past  life  was  forgiven — her  sins  of  omission 
and  commission  !  And  whatever  might  be  her  fate — 
recovery,  madness,  disease,  or  death — the  care  of  her 


399 

till  she  died  or  recovered  should  be  the  principal  busi- 
ness of  their  lives. 

Both  had  loved  her.  All  three,  perhaps.  One  had 
been  loved  by  her  as  passionately,  as  purely,  as  un- 
selfishly as  any  man  could  wish  to  be  loved,  and  in 
some  extraordinary  manner  had  recovered,  after  many 
years,  at  the  mere  sudden  sight  and  sound  of  her,  his 
lost  share  in  our  common  inheritance — the  power  to 
love,  and  all  its  joy  and  sorrow ;  without  which  he 
had  found  life  not  worth  living,  though  he  had  pos- 
sessed every  other  gift  and  blessing  in  such  abundance. 

"  Oh,  Circe,  poor  Circe,  dear  Circe,  divine  enchant- 
ress that  you  were !"  he  said  to  himself,  in  his  excit- 
able way.  "  A  mere  look  from  your  eyes,  a  mere  note 
of  your  heavenly  voice,  has  turned  a  poor,  miserable, 
callous  brute  back  into  a  man  again !  and  I  will  never 
forget  it — never !  And  now  that  a  still  worse  trouble 
than  mine  has  befallen  you,  you  shall  always  be  first 
in  my  thoughts  till  the  end !" 

And  Taffy  felt  pretty  much  the  same,  though  he 
was  not  by  way  of  talking  to  himself  so  eloquent 
about  things  as  Little  Billee. 

As  they  lunched,  they  read  the  accounts  of  the  pre- 
vious evening's  events  in  different  papers,  three  or  four 
of  which  (including  the  Times)  had  already  got  lead- 
ers about  the  famous  but  unhappy  singer  who  had 
been  so  suddenly  widowed  and  struck  down  in  the 
midst  of  her  glory.  All  these  accounts  were  more  or 
less  correct.  In  one  paper  it  was  mentioned  that  Ma- 
dame Svengali  was  under  the  roof  and  care  of  Mr. 
William  Bagot,  the  painter,  in  Fitzroy  Square. 


400 

The  inquest  on  Svengali  was  to  take  place  that  after- 
noon, and  also  Gecko's  examination  at  the  Bow  Street 
Police  Court,  for  his  assault. 

Taffy  was  allowed  to  see  Gecko,  who  was  remanded 
till  the  result  of  the  post-mortem  should  be  made  pub- 


"TAFFY  WAS  ALLOWED  TO  SEE  GECKO' 


lie.  But  beyond  inquiring  most  anxiously  and  mi- 
nutely after  Trilby,  and  betraying  the  most  passionate 
concern  for  her,  he  would  say  nothing,  and  seemed  in- 
different as  to  his  own  fate. 

When  they  went  to  Fitzroy  Square,  late  in  the  after- 


401 

noon,  they  found  that  many  people,  musical,  literary, 
fashionable,  and  otherwise  (and  many  foreigners),  had 
called  to  inquire  after  Madame  Svengali,  but  no  one 
had  been  admitted  to  see  her.  Mrs.  Godwin  was  much 
elated  by  the  importance  of  her  new  lodger. 

Trilby  had  been  writing  to  Angele  Boisse,  at  her 
old  address  in  the  Rue  des  Cloitres  Ste.  Petronille,  in 
the  hope  that  this  letter  would  find  her  still  there. 
She  was  anxious  to  go  back  and  be  a  blanchisseuse  de 
fin  with  her  friend.  It  was  a  kind  of  nostalgia  for 
Paris,  the  quartier  latin,  her  clean  old  trade. 

This  project  our  three  heroes  did  not  think  it  nec- 
essary to  discuss  with  her  just  yet ;  she  seemed  quite 
unfit  for  work  of  any  kind. 

The  doctor,  who  had  seen  her  again,  had  been  puz- 
zled by  her  strange  physical  weakness,  and  wished  for 
a  consultation  with  some  special  authority ;  Little  Bil- 
lee,  who  was  intimate  with  most  of  the  great  physi- 
cians, wrote  about  her  to  Sir  Oliver  Calthorpe. 

She  seemed  to  find  a  deep  happiness  in  being  with 
her  three  old  friends,  and  talked  and  listened  with  all 
her  old  eagerness  and  geniality,  and  much  of  her  old 
gayety,  in  spite  of  her  strange  and  sorrowful  position. 
But  for  this  it  was  impossible  to  realize  that  her  brain 
was  affected  in  the  slightest  degree,  except  when  some 
reference  was  made  to  her  singing,  and  this  seemed  to 
annoy  and  irritate  her,  as  though  she  were  being  made 
fun  of.  The  whole  of  her  marvellous  musical  career, 
and  everything  connected  with  it,  had  been  clean 
wiped  out  of  her  recollection. 

She  was  very  anxious  to  get  into  other  quarters, 
that  Little  Billee  should  suffer  no  inconvenience,  and 


402 

they  promised  to  take  rooms  for  her  and  Marta  on  the 
morrow. 

They  told  her  cautiously  all  about  Svengali  and 
Gecko ;  she  was  deeply  concerned,  but  betrayed  no 
such  poignant  anguish  as  might  have  been  expected. 
The  thought  of  Gecko  troubled  her  most,  and  she 
showed  much  anxiety  as  to  what  might  befall  him. 

Next  day  she  moved  with  Marta  to  some  lodgings 
in  Charlotte  Street,  where  everything  was  made  as 
comfortable  for  them  as  possible. 

Sir  Oliver  saw  her  with  Dr.  Thorne  (the  doctor  who 
was  attending  her)  and  Sir  Jacob  Wilcox. 

Sir  Oliver  took  the  greatest  interest  in  her  case,  both 
for  her  sake  and  his  friend  Little  Billee's.  Also  his 
own,  for  he  was  charmed  with  her.  He  saw  her  three 
times  in  the  course  of  the  week,  but  could  not  say  for 
certain  what  was  the  matter  with  her,  beyond  taking 
the  very  gravest  view  of  her  condition.  For  all  he 
could  advise  or  prescribe,  her  weakness  and  physical 
prostration  increased  rapidly,  through  no  cause  he 
could  discover.  Her  insanity  was  not  enough  to  ac- 
count for  it.  She  lost  weight  daily ;  she  seemed  to  be 
wasting  and  fading  away  from  sheer  general  atrophy. 

Two  or  three  times  lie  took  her  and  Marta  for  a 
drive. 

On  one  of  these  occasions,  as  they  went  down  Char- 
lotte Street,  she  saw  a  shop  with  transparent  French 
blinds  in  the  window,  and  through  them  some  French 
women,  with  neat  white  caps,  ironing.  It  was  a  French 
llanchisserie  defin,  and  the  sight  of  it  interested  and 
excited  her  so  much  that  she  must  needs  insist  on  be 
ing  put  down  and  on  going  into  it. 


403 


"  Je  voudrais  bien  parlor  a  la  patronne,  si  §a  ne  la 
derange  pas,"  she  said. 

The  patronne,  a  genial  Parisian,  was  much  aston- 
ished to  hear  a  great  French  lady,  in  costly  garments, 


A  FAIR   BLANCHISSEUSE   DE   FIN 


evidently  a  person  of  fashion  and  importance,  apply- 
ing to  her  rather  humbly  for  employment  in  the  busi- 
ness, and  showing  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  work 
(and  of  the  Parisian  work -woman's  colloquial  dia- 
lect). Marta  managed  to  catch  the  patronne's  eye,  and 


404 

tapped  her  own  forehead  significantly,  and  Sir  Oliver 
nodded.  So  the  good  woman  humored  the  great  lady's 
fancy,  and  promised  her  abundance  of  employment 
whenever  she  should  want  it. 

Employment !  Poor  Trilby  was  hardly  strong 
enough  to  walk  back  to  the  carriage;  and  this  was 
her  last  outing. 

But  this  little  adventure  had  filled  her  with  hope 
and  good  spirits  —  for  she  had  as  yet  received  no  an- 
swer from  Angele  Boisse  (who  was  in  Marseilles),  and 
had  begun  to  realize  how  dreary  the  quartier  latin 
would  be  without  Jeannot,  without  Angele,  without 
the  trois  Angliches  in  the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts. 

She  was  not  allowed  to  see  any  of  the  strangers  who 
came  and  made  kind  inquiries.  This  her  doctors  had 
strictly  forbidden.  Any  reference  to  music  or  singing 
irritated  her  beyond  measure.  She  would  say  to  Marta, 
in  bad  German : 

"  Tell  them,  Marta — what  nonsense  it  is !  They  are 
taking  me  for  another — they  are  mad.  They  are  try- 
ing to  make  a  fool  of  me !" 

And  Marta  would  betray  great  uneasiness — almost 
terror — when  she  was  appealed  to  in  this  way. 


part  jEUjbtb 

"La  vie  est  vaine: 

Un  peu  d'amour, 
Un  peu  cie  haine.  .  .  . 
Et  puis — bonjour! 

"La  vie  est  brfive: 

Un  peu  d'espoir, 

Un  peu  de  rfive.  .  .  . 

Et  puis — bonsoir." 

SVENGALI  had  died  from  heart-disease.  The  cut  he 
had  received  from  Gecko  had  not  apparently  (as  far  as 
the  verdict  of  a  coroner's  inquest  could  be  trusted)  had 
any  effect  in  aggravating  his  malady  or  hastening  his 
death. 

But  Gecko  was  sent  for  trial  at  the  Old  Bailey,  and 
sentenced  to  hard  labor  for  six  months  (a  sentence 
which,  if  I  remember  aright,  gave  rise  to  much  com- 
ment at  the  time).  Taffy  saw  him  again,  but  with  no 
better  result  than  before.  He  chose  to  preserve  an 
obstinate  silence  on  his  relations  with  the  Svengalis 
and  their  relations  with  each  other. 

When  he  was  told  how  hopelessly  ill  and  insane 
Madame  Svengali  was,  he  shed  a  few  tears,  and  said : 
"  Ah,  pauvrette,  pauvrette — ah  !  monsieur — je  1'aimais 
tant,  je  1'aimais  tant !  il  n'y  en  a  pas  beaucoup  comme 
elle,  Dieu  de  misere!  C'est  un  ange  du  Paradis !" 

And  not  another  word  was  *e  be  got  out  of  him. 
27 


409 

It  took  some  time  to  settle  Svengali's  affairs  after 
his  death.  No  will  was  found.  His  old  mother  came 
over  from  Germany,  and  two  of  his  sisters,  but  no 
wife.  The  comic  wife  and  the  three  children,  and  the 
sweet-stuff  shop  in  Elberfeld,  had  been  humorous  in- 
ventions of  his  own — a  kind  of  Mrs.  Harris! 

lie  left  three  thousand  pounds,  every  penny  of 
which  (and  of  far  larger  sums  that  he  had  spent)  had 
been  earned  by  "la  Svengali,"  but  nothing  came  to 
Trilby  of  this;  nothing  but  the  clothes  and  jewels  he 
had  given  her,  and  in  this  respect  he  had  been  lavish 
enough ;  and  there  were  countless  costly  gifts  from 
emperors,  kings,  great  people  of  all  kinds.  Trilby 
was  under  the  impression  that  all  these  belonged  to 
Marta.  Marta  behaved  admirably  ;  she  seemed  bound 
hand  and  foot  to  Trilby  by  a  kind  of  slavish  adora- 
tion, as  that  of  a  plain  old  mother  for  a  brilliant  and 
beautiful  but  dying  child. 

It  soon  became  evident  that,  whatever  her  disease 
might  be,  Trilby  had  but  a  very  short  time  to  live. 

She  was  soon  too  weak  even  to  be  taken  out  in  a 
Bath-chair,  and  remained  all  day  in  her  large  sitting- 
room  with  Marta ;  and  there,  to  her  great  and  only 
joy,  she  received  her  three  old  friends  every  after- 
noon, and  gave  them  coffee,  and  made  them  smoke 
cigarettes  of  caporal  as  of  old ;  and  their  hearts  were 
daily  harrowed  as  they  watched  her  rapid  decline. 

Day  by  day  she  grew  more  beautiful  in  their  eyes, 
in  spite  of  her  increasing  pallor  and  emaciation  —  her 
skin  was  so  pure  and  white  and  delicate,  and  the  bones 
of  her  face  so  admirable  ! 

Her  eyes  recovered  all  their  old  humorous  bright- 


408 

ness  when  les  trois  Angliches  were  with  her,  and  the 
expression  of  her  face  was  so  wistful  and  tender  for 
all  her  playfulness,  so  full  of  eager  clinging  to  exist- 
ence and  to  them,  that  they  felt  the  memory  of  it 
would  haunt  them  forever,  and  be  the  sweetest  and 
saddest  memory  of  their  lives. 

Her  quick,  though  feeble  gestures,  full  of  reminis- 
cences of  the  vigorous  and  lively  girl  they  had  known 
a  few  years  back,  sent  waves  of  pity  through  them 
and  pure  brotherly  love ;  and  the  incomparable  tones 
and  changes  and  modulations  of  her  voice,  as  she  chat 
ted  and  laughed,  bewitched  them  almost  as  much  as 
when  she  had  sung  the  "  Nussbaum  "  of  Schumann  in 
the  Salle  des  Bashibazoucks. 

Sometimes  Lorrimer  came,  and  Antony  and  the 
Greek.  It  was  like  a  genial  little  court  of  bohemia. 
And  Lorrimer,  Antony,  the  Laird,  and  Little  Billee 
made  those  beautiful  chalk  and  pencil  studies  of  her 
head  which  are  now  so  well  known — all  so  singularly 
like  her,  and  so  singularly  unlike  each  other !  Trilby 
vue  d  travers  yuatre  tejnjperaments  ! 

These  afternoons  were  probably  the  happiest  poor 
Trilby  had  ever  spent  in  her  life  —  with  these  dear 
people  round  her,  speaking  the  language  she  loved ; 
talking  of  old  times  and  jolly  Paris  days,  she  never 
thought  of  the  morrow. 

But  later — at  night,  in  the  small  hours — she  would 
wake  up  with  a  start  from  some  dream  full  of  tender 
and  blissful  recollection,  and  suddenly  realize  her  own 
mischance,  and  feel  the  icy  hand  of  that  which  was  to 
come  before  many  morrows  were  over ;  and  taste  the 
bitterness  of  death  so  keenly  that  she  longed  to  scream 


409 

out  loud,  and  get  up,  and  walk  up  and  down,  and 
wring  her  hands  at  the  dreadful  thought  of  parting 
forever ! 

But  she  lay  motionless  and  mum  as  a  poor  little 
frightened  mouse  in  a  trap,  for  fear  of  waking  up  the 
good  old  tired  Marta,  who  was  snoring  at  her  side. 

And  in  an  hour  or  two  the  bitterness  would  pass 
away,  the  creeps  and  the  horrors ;  and  the  stoical 
spirit  of  resignation  would  steal  over  her — the  balm, 
the  blessed  calm !  and  all  her  old  bravery  would  come 
back. 

And  then  she  would  sink  into  sleep  again,  and 
dream  more  blissfully  than  ever,  till  the  good  Marta 
woke  her  with  a  motherly  kiss  and  a  fragrant  cup  of 
coffee ;  and  she  would  find,  feeble  as  she  was,  and 
doomed  as  she  felt  herself  to  be,  that  joy  cometh  of  a 
morning ;  and  life  was  still  sweet  for  her,  with  yet  a 
whole  day  to  look  forward  to. 

One  day  she  was  deeply  moved  at  receiving  a  visit 
from  Mrs.  Bagot,  who,  at  Little  Billee's  earnest  desire, 
had  come  all  the  way  from  Devonshire  to  see  her. 

As  the  graceful  little  lady  came  in,  pale  and  trem- 
bling all  over,  Trilby  rose  from  her  chair  to  receive 
her,  and  rather  timidly  put  out  her  hand,  and  smiled 
in  a  frightened  manner.  Neither  could  speak  for  a 
second.  Mrs.  Bagot  stood  stock-still  by  the  door  gaz- 
ing (with  all  her  heart  in  her  eyes)  at  the  so  terribly 
altered  Trilby — the  girl  she  had  once  so  dreaded. 

Trilby,  who  seemed  also  bereft  of  motion,  and 
whose  face  and  lips  were  ashen,  exclaimed,  "  I'm  afraid 
I  haven't  quite  kept  my  promise  to  you,  after  all !  but 


410 


things  have  turned  out  so  differently!  anyhow,  you 
needn't  have  any  fear  of  me  now." 

At  the  mere  sound  of  that  voice,  Mrs.  Bagot,  who 
was  as  impulsive,  emotional,  and  unregulated  as  her 


"  '  OH,    MY   POOR   GIRL  !    MY   POOR   GIRL  !'  " 

son,  rushed  fonvard,  crying,  "  Oh,  ray  poor  girl,  my 
poor  girl !"  and  caught  her  in  her  arms,  and  kissed 
and  caressed  her,  and  burst  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and 
forced  her  back  into  her  chair,  hugging  her  as  if  she 
were  a  long-lost  child. 

"I  love  you  now  as  much  as  I  always  admired  you 
— pray  believe  it !'' 


411 

"  Oh,  how  kind  of  you  to  sa}'  that !"  said  Trilby,  her 
own  eyes  filling.  "I'm  not  at  all  the  dangerous  OP 
designing  person  you  thought.  I  knew  quite  well  I 
wasn't  a  proper  person  to  marry  your  son  all  the  time  ; 
and  told  him  so  again  and  again.  It  was  very  stupid 
of  me  to  say  yes  at  last.  I  was  miserable  directly 
after,  I  assure  you.  Somehow  I  couldn't  help  myself 
—I  was  driven." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  of  that !  don't  talk  of  that !  You've 
never  been  to  blame  in  any  way  —  I've  long  known 
it  —  I've  been  full  of  remorse!  You've  been  in  my 
thoughts  always,  night  and  day.  Forgive  a  poor  jeal- 
ous mother.  As  if  any  man  could  help  loving  you — 
or  any  woman  either.  Forgive  me  !" 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Bagot  —  forgive  you  !  What  a  funny 
idea!  But,  anyhow,  you've  forgiven  me,  and  that's  all 
I  care  for  now.  I  was  very  fond  of  your  son — as  fond 
as  could  be.  I  am  now,  but  in  quite  a  different  sort 
of  way,  you  know — the  sort  of  way  you  must  be,  I 
fancy  !  There  was  never  another  like  him  that  I  ever 
met — anywhere !  You  must  be  so  proud  of  him ;  who 
wouldn't?  Nobody's  good  enough  for  him.  I  would 
have  been  only  too  glad  to  be  his  servant,  his  humble 
servant !  I  used  to  tell  him  so — but  he  wouldn't  hear 
of  it — he  was  much  too  kind !  He  always  thought  of 
others  before  himself.  And,  oh !  how  rich  and  famous 
he's  become!  I've  heard  all  about  it,  and  it  did  me 
good.  It  does  me  more  good  to  think  of  than  any- 
thing else ;  far  more  than  if  I  were  to  be  ever  so  rich 
and  famous  myself,  I  can  tell  you !" 

This  from  la  Svengali,  whose  overpowering  fame,  so 
utterly  forgotten  by  herself,  was  still  ringing  all  over 


412 

Europe;  whose  lamentable  illness  and  approaching 
death  were  being  mourned  and  discussed  and  com- 
mented upon  in  every  capital  of  the  civilized  world,  as 
one  distressing  bulletin  appeared  after  another.  She 
might  have  been  a  royal  personage  ! 

Mrs.  Bagot  knew,  of  course,  the  strange  form  her 
insanity  had  taken,  and  made  no  allusion  to  the  flood 
of  thoughts  that  rushed  through  her  own  brain  as  she 
listened  to  this  towering  goddess  of  song,  this  poor 
mad  queen  of  the  nightingales,  humbly  gloating  over 
her  son's  success.  .  .  . 

Poor  Mrs.  Bagot  had  just  come  from  Little  Billee's, 
in  Fitzroy  Square,  close  by.  There  she  had  seen  Taffy, 
in  a  corner  of  Little  Billee's  studio,  laboriously  an- 
swering endless  letters  and  telegrams  from  all  parts 
of  Europe — for  the  good  Taffy  had  constituted  him- 
self Trilby's  secretary  and  homme  d'affaires — unknown 
to  her,  of  course.  And  this  was  no  sinecure  (though 
he  liked  it) :  putting  aside  the  numerous  people  he 
had  to  see  and  be  interviewed  by,  there  were  kind 
inquiries  and  messages  of  condolence  and  sympathy 
from  nearly  all  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe,  through 
their  chamberlains;  applications  for  help  from  unsuc- 
cessful musical  strugglers  all  over  the  world  to  the  pre- 
eminently successful  one;  beautiful  letters  from  great 
and  famous  people,  musical  or  otherwise ;  disinterested 
offers  of  service;  interested  proposals  for  engagements 
when  the  present  trouble  should  be  over ;  beggings  for 
an  interview  from  famous  impresarios,  to  obtain  which 
no  distance  would  be  thought  too  great,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. 
It  was  endless,  in  English,  French,  German,  Italian— 
in  languages  quite  incomprehensible  (many  letters  had 


413 

to  remain  unanswered) — Taffy  took  an  almost  ma/ 
licious  pleasure  in  explaining  all  this  to  Mrs.  Bagot. 

Then  there  was  a  constant  rolling  of  carriages  up 
to  the  door,  and  a  thundering  of  Little  Billee's  knocker: 
Lord  and  Lady  Palmerston  wish  to  know — the  Lord 
Chief  Justice  wishes  to  know — the  Dean  of  Westmin- 
ster wishes  to  know — the  Marchioness  of  Westminster 
wishes  to  know — everybody  wishes  to  know  if  there  is 
any  better  news  of  Madame  Svengali ! 

These  were  small  things,  truly ;  but  Mrs.  Bagot  was 
a  small  person  from  a  small  village  in  Devonshire,  and 
one  whose  heart  and  eye  had  hitherto  been  filled  by 
no  larger  image  than  that  of  Little  Billee ;  and  Little 
Billee's  fame,  as  she  now  discovered  for  the  first  time, 
did  not  quite  fill  the  entire  universe. 

And  she  mustn't  be  too  much  blamed  if  all  these 
obvious  signs  of  a  world-wide  colossal  celebrity  im- 
pressed and  even  awed  her  a  little. 

Madame  Svengali !  Why,  this  was  the  beautiful 
girl  whom  she  remembered  so  well,  whom  she  had  so 
grandly  discarded  with  a  word,  and  who  had  accepted 
her  conge  so  meekly  in  a  minute ;  whom,  indeed,  she 
had  been  cursing  in  her  heart  for  years,  because — be- 
cause what  ? 

Poor  Mrs.  Bagot  felt  herself  turn  hot  and  red  all 
over,  and  humbled  herself  to  the  very  dust,  and  al- 
most forgot  that  she  had  been  in  the  right,  after  all, 
and  that  "la  grande  Trilby"  was  certainly  no  fit 
match  for  her  son  ! 

So  she  went  quite  humbly  to  see  Trilby,  and  found 
a  poor,  pathetic,  mad  creature  still  more  humble  than 
herself,  who  still  apologized  for — for  what  ? 


414 

A  poor,  pathetic,  mad  creature  who  had  clean  for- 
gotten that  she  was  the  greatest  singer  in  all  the 
world — one  of  the  greatest  artists  that  had  ever  lived ; 
but  who  remembered  with  shame  and  contrition  that 
she  had  once  taken  the  liberty  of  yielding  (after  end- 
less pressure  and  repeated  disinterested  refusals  of  her 
own,  and  out  of  sheer  irresistible  affection)  to  the  pas- 
sionate pleadings  of  a  little  obscure  art  student,  a 
mere  boy — no  better  off  than  herself — just  as  penni- 
less and  insignificant  a  nobody ;  but — the  son  of  Mrs. 
Bagot. 

All  due  sense  of  proportion  died  out  of  the  poor 
lady  as  she  remembered  and  realized  all  this ! 

And  then  Trilby's  pathetic  beauty,  so  touching,  so 
winning,  in  its  rapid  decay;  the  nameless  charm  of 
look  and  voice  and  manner  that  was  her  special  apa- 
nage, and  which  her  malady  and  singular  madness 
had  only  increased;  her  childlike  simplicity,  her  trans- 
parent forgetfulness  of  self — all  these  so  fascinated 
and  entranced  Mrs.  Bagot,  whose  quick  susceptibility 
to  such  impressions  was  just  as  keen  as  her  son's,  that 
she  very  soon  found  herself  all  but  worshipping  this 
fast-fading  lily — for  so  she  called  her  in  her  own 
mind  —  quite  forgetting  (or  affecting  to  forget)  on 
what  very  questionable  soil  the  lily  had  been  reared, 
and  through  what  strange  vicissitudes  of  evil  and  cor- 
ruption it  had  managed  to  grow  so  tall  and  white  and 
fragrant ! 

Oh,  strange  compelling  power  of  weakness  and 
grace  and  prettiness  combined,  and  sweet,  sincere  un- 
conscious natural  manners!  not  to  speak  of  world- 
wide fame ! 


415 

For  Mrs.  Bagot  was  just  a  shrewd  little  conven- 
tional British  country  matron  of  the  good  upper 
middle-class  type,  bristling  all  over  with  provincial 
proprieties  and  respectabilities,  a  philistine  of  the 
philistines,  in  spite  of  her  artistic  instincts;  one  who 
for  years  had  (rather  unjustly)  thought  of  Trilby  as  a 
wanton  and  perilous  siren,  an  unchaste  and  unprinci- 
pled and  most  dangerous  daughter  of  Heth,  and  the 
special  enemy  of  her  house. 

And  here  she  was — like  all  the  rest  of  us  monads 
and  nomads  and  bohemians — just  sitting  at  Trilby's 
feet.  ..."  A  washer- woman !  a  figure  model !  and 
Heaven  knows  what  besides!"  and  she  had  never  even 
heard  her  sing ! 

It  was  truly  comical  to  see  and  hear  ? 

Mrs.  Bagot  did  not  go  back  to  Devonshire.  She  re- 
mained in  Fitzroy  Square,  at  her  son's,  and  spent  most 
of  her  time  with  Trilby,  doing  and  devising  all  kinds 
of  things  to  distract  and  amuse  her,  and  lead  her 
thoughts  gently  to  heaven,  and  soften  for  her  the  com- 
ing end  of  all. 

Trilby  had  a  way  of  saying,  and  especially  of  look- 
ing, "  Thank  you"  that  made  one  wish  to  do  as  many 
things  for  her  as  one  could,  if  only  to  make  her  say 
and  look  it  again. 

And  she  had  retained  much  of  her  old,  quaint,  and 
amusing  manner  of  telling  things,  and  had  much  to 
tell  still  left  of  her  wandering  life,  although  there 
were  so  many  strange  lapses  in  her  powers  of  mem- 
ory— gaps — which,  if  they  could  only  have  been  filled 
up,  would  have  been  full  of  such  surpassing  interest ! 


416 


Then  she  was  never  tired  of  talking  and  hearing 
of  Little  Billee ;  and  that  was  a  subject  of  which  Mrs. 
Bagot  could  never  tire  either! 

Then  there  were  the  recollections  of  her  childhood. 
One  day,  in  a  drawer,  Mrs.  Bagot  came  upon  a  faded 
daguerreotype  of  a  woman  in  a  Tarn  o'  Shanter,  with 
a  face  so  sweet  and  beautiful  and  saint -like  that 

it  almost  took  her 
breath  away.  It 
was  Trilby's  mother. 
"  Who  and  what 
was  your  mother, 
Trilby?" 

"Ah,  poor  mam- 
ma!" said  Trilby, 
and  she  looked  at 
the  portrait  a  long 
time.  "Ah,  she 
was  ever  so  much 
prettier  than  that! 
Mamma  was  once  a 
demoiselle  de  comp- 
toir  —  that's  a  bar- 
maid, you  know — 
at  the  Montagnards 
£cossais,  in  the  Rue 
da  Paradis  Poissonniere — a  place  where  men  used  to 
drink  and  smoke  without  sitting  down.  That  was 
unfortunate,  wasn't  it  ? 

"Papa  loved  her  with  all  his  heart,  although,  of 
course,  she  wasn't  his  equal.  They  were  married  at 
the  Embassy,  in  the  Rue  du  Faubourg  St.  lionore'. 


"'AH,  POOR  MAMMA!   SHE  WAS  EVER  so 

MUCH    PRETTIER   THAN    THAT  !'  " 


417 

"Her  parents  weren't  married  at  all.  Her  mother 
was  the  daughter  of  a  boatman  on  Loch  Ness,  near  a 
place  called  Drumnadrockit ;  but  her  father  was  the 
Honorable  Colonel  Desmond.  He  was  related  to  all 
sorts  of  great  people  in  England  and  Ireland.  He 
behaved  very  badly  to  my  grandmother  and  to  poor 
mamma — his  own  daughter!  deserted  them  both! 
Not  very  honorable  of  him,  was  it?  And  that's  all 
I  know  about  him." 

And  then  she  went  on  to  tell  of  the  home  in  Paris 
that  might  have  been  so  happy  but  for  her  father's 
passion  for  drink ;  of  her  parents'  deaths,  and  little 
Jeannot,  and  so  forth.  And  Mrs.  Bagot  was  much 
moved  and  interested  by  these  naive  revelations, 
which  accounted  in  a  measure  for  so  much  that 
seemed  unaccountable  in  this  extraordinary  woman ; 
who  thus  turned  out  to  be  a  kind  of  cousin  (though 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  blanket)  to  no  less  a  person 
than  the  famous  Duchess  of  Towers. 

With  what  joy  would  that  ever  kind  and  gracious 
lady  have  taken  poor  Trilby  to  her  bosom  had  she 
only  known !  She  had  once  been  all  the  way  from 
Paris  to  Vienna  merely  to  hear  her  sing.  But,  un- 
fortunately, the  Svengalis  had  just  left  for  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  she  had  her  long  journey  for  nothing ! 

Mrs.  Bagot  brought  her  many  good  books,  and  read 
them  to  her — Dr.  Cummings  on  the  approaching  end 
of  the  world,  and  other  works  of  a  like  comforting 
tendency  for  those  who  are  just  about  to  leave  it ; 
the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  sweet  little  tracts,  and  what 
not. 


418 

Trilby  was  so  grateful  that  she  listened  with  much 
patient  attention.  Only  now  and  then  a  faint  gleam 
of  amusement  would  steal  over  her  face,  and  her  lips 
would  almost  form  themselves  to  ejaculate, "  Oh,  maie, 
aie !" 

Then  Mrs.  Bagot,  as  a  reward  for  such  winning  do- 
cility, would  read  her  David  Copperfield,  and  that  was 
heavenly  indeed ! 

But  the  best  of  all  was  for  Trilby  to  look  over  John 
Leech's  Pictures  of  Life  and  Character,  just  out. 
She  had  never  seen  any  drawings  of  Leech  before, 
except  now  and  then  in  an  occasional  Punch  that 
turned  up  in  the  studio  in  Paris.  And  they  never 
palled  upon  her,  and  taught  her  more  of  the  aspect  of 
English  life  (the  life  she  loved)  than  any  book  she  had 
ever  read.  She  laughed  and  laughed ;  and  it  was  al- 
most as  sweet  to  listen  to  as  if  she  were  vocalizing  the 
quick  part  in  Chopin's  Impromptu. 

One  day  she  said,  her  lips  trembling :  "  I  can't  make 
out  why  you're  so  wonderfully  kind  to  me,  Mrs.  Ba- 
got. I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  who  and  what 
I  am,  and  what  my  story  is.  I  hope  you  haven't  for- 
gotten that  I'm  not  a  respectable  woman  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  child — don't  ask  me  ...  I  only  know 
that  you  are  you  !  .  .  .  and  I  am  I !  and  that  is  enough 
for  me  .  .  .  you're  my  poor,  gentle,  patient,  suffering 
daughter,  whatever  else  you  are — more  sinned  against 
than  sinning,  I  feel  sure  1  But  there  .  .  .  I've  mis- 
judged you  so,  and  been  so  unjust,  that  I  would  give 
•worlds  to  make  you  some  amends  .  .  .  besides,  I  should 
be  just  as  fond  of  you  if  you'd  committed  a  murder,  I 


419 

really  believe — you're  so  strange  !  you're  irresistible ! 
Did  you  ever,  in  all  your  life,  meet  anybody  that 
wasn't  fond  of  you  ?" 

Trilby's  eyes  moistened  with  tender  pleasure  at 
such  a  pretty  compliment.  Then,  after  a  few  min- 
utes' thought,  she  said,  with  engaging  candor  and 
quite  simply  :  a  No,  I  can't  say  I  ever  did,  that  I 
can  think  of  just  now.  But  I've  forgotten  such  lots 
of  people !" 

One  day  Mrs.  Bagot  told  Trilby  that  her  brother- 
in-law,  Mr.  Thomas  Bagot,  would  much  like  to  come 
and  talk  to  her. 

"  Was  that  the  gentleman  who  came  with  you  to 
the  studio  in  Paris  2" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why,  he's  a  clergyman,  isn't  he  ?  What  does  he 
want  to  come  and  talk  to  me  about?" 

"  Ah !  my  dear  child  .  .  ."  said  Mrs.  Bagot,  her  eyes 
filling. 

Trilby  was  thoughtful  for  a  while,  and  then  said  : 
"  I'm  going  to  die,  I  suppose.  Oh  yes !  oh  yes ! 
There's  no  mistake  about  that !" 

"Dear  Trilby,  we  are  all  in  the  hands  of  an  Al- 
mighty Merciful  God !"  And  the  tears  rolled  down 
Mrs.  Bagot's  cheeks. 

After  a  long  pause,  during  which  she  gazed  out  of 
the  window,  Trilby  said,  in  an  abstracted  kind  of  way. 
as  though  she  were  talking  to  herself:  "  Apres  tout, 
c'est  pas  deja  si  raide,  de  claquer!  J'en  ai  tant  vus, 
qui  ont  passe  par  la  !  Au  bout  du  fosse  la  culbute, 
ma  foi !" 


420 

"  What  are  you  saying  to  yourself  in  French,  Tril. 
by  ?  Your  French  is  so  difficult  to  understand !" 

"  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon !  I  was  thinking  it's  not 
so  difficult  to  die,  after  all !  I've  seen  such  lots  of  peo- 
ple do  it.  I've  nursed  them,  you  know  —  papa  and 
mamma  and  Jeannot,  and  Angele  Boisse's  mother- 
in-law,  and  a  poor  casseur  de  pierres,  Colin  Maigret, 
who  lived  in  the  Impasse  des  Taupes  St.  Germain. 
He'd  been  run  over  by  an  omnibus  in  the  Rue  Vau- 
girard,  and  had  to  have  both  his  legs  cut  off  just 
above  the  knee.  They  none  of  them  seemed  to 
mind  dying  a  bit.  They  weren't  a  bit  afraid !  Pm 
not! 

"  Poor  people  don't  think  much  of  death.  Rich 
people  shouldn't  either.  They  should  be  taught  when 
they're  quite  young  to  laugh  at  it  and  despise  it,  like 
the  Chinese.  The  Chinese  die  of  laughing  just  as 
their  heads  are  being  cut  off,  and  cheat  the  execution- 
er !  It's  all  in  the  day's  work,  and  we're  all  in  the 
same  boat — so  who's  afraid  !" 

"  Dying  is  not  all,  my  poor  child  !  Are  you  pre- 
pared to  meet  your  Maker  face  to  face  ?  Have  you 
ever  thought  about  God,  and  the  possible  wrath  to 
come  if  you  should  die  unrepentant?" 

"  Oh,  but  I  sha'n't!  I've  been  repenting  all  my 
life !  Besides,  there'll  be  no  wrath  for  any  of  us — not 
even  the  worst!  II  y  aura  amnistie  generate  !  Papa 
told  me  so,  and  he'd  been  a  clergyman,  like  Air. 
Thomas  Bagot.  I  often  think  about  God.  I'm  very 
fond  of  Him.  One  must  have  something  perfect 
to  look  up  to  and  be  fond  of — even  if  it's  only  an 
idea ! 


421 

"  Though  some  people  don't  even  believe  He  exists  ! 
Le  pere  Martin  didn't — but,  of  course,  he  was  only  a 
chiffonnier,  and  doesn't  count. 

"  One  day,  though,  Durien,  the  sculptor,  who's  very 
clever,  and  a  very  good  fellow  indeed,  said : 

"  '  Vois  -  tu,  Trilby  —  I'm  very  much  afraid  He 
doesn't  really  exist,  le  bon  Dieu !  most  unfortunately 
for  me,  for  I  adore  Him !  I  never  do  a  piece  of  work 
without  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  if  I  could  only 
please  Him  with  it !' 

"And  I've  often  thought,  myself,  how  heavenly  it 
must  be  to  be  able  to  paint,  or  sculpt,  or  make  music, 
or  write  beautiful  poetry,  for  that  very  reason ! 

"  Why,  once  on  a  very  hot  afternoon  we  were  sit- 
ting, a  lot  of  us,  in  the  court  -  yard  outside  la  mere 
Martin's  shop,  drinking  coffee  with  an  old  Invalide 
called  Bastide  Lendormi,  one  of  the  Yieille  Garde, 
who'd  only  got  one  leg  and  one  arm  and  one  eye,  and 
everybody  was  very  fond  of  him.  Well,  a  model 
called  Mimi  la  Salope  came  out  of  the  Mont-de-piete 
opposite,  and  Pere  Martin  called  out  to  her  to  come 
and  sit  down,  and  gave  her  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  asked 
her  to  sing. 

"  She  sang  a  song  of  Beranger's,  about  Napoleon 
the  Great,  in  which  it  says : 

"  '  Parlez-nous  de  lui,  grandmere  ! 
Grandmfire,  parlez-nous  de  lui  1' 

I  suppose  she  sang  it  very  well,  for  it  made  old  Bas- 
tide Lendormi  cry ;  and  when  Pere  Martin  Hague1  d 
him  about  it,  he  said, 


"  'TO   SING    LIKE    THAT    IS    TO    PRAY.1'" 

"  '  (Test  egal,  voyez  -  vous  !  to  sing  like  that  is  to 
pray  /' 

"  And  then  I  thought  how  lovely  it  would  be  if  1 
could  only  sing  like  Mirai  la  Salope,  and  I've  thought 
so  ever  since — just  to  pray  /" 

"  What  !  Trilby  ?  if  you  could  only  sing  like—  Oh, 
but  never  mind,  I  forgot !  Tell  me,  Trilby — do  you 
ever  pray  to  Him,  as  other  people  pray  ?" 

"  Pray  to  Him  ?  Well,  no — not  often— not  in  words 
and  on  my  knees  and  with  my  hands  together,  you 
know!  Thinking's  praying,  very  often  —  don't  you 
think  so?  And  so's  being  sorry  and  ashamed  when 
one's  done  a  mean  thing,  and  glad  when  one's  resisted 
a  temptation,  and  grateful  when  it's  a  fine  day  and 


423 

one's  enjoying  one's  self  without  hurting  any  one  else ! 
What  is  it  but  praying  when  you  try  and  bear  up 
after  losing  all  you  cared  to  live  for  ?  And  very  good 
praying  too!  There  can  be  prayers  without  words 
just  as  well  as  songs,  1  suppose ;  and  Svengali  used  to 
say  that  songs  without  words  are  the  best ! 

"  And  then  it  seems  mean  to  be  always  asking  for 
things.  Besides,  you  don't  get  them  any  the  faster 
that  way,  and  that  shows ! 

"  La  mere  Martin  used  to  be  always  praying.  And 
Pere  Martin  used  always  to  laugh  at  her;  yet  he  al- 
ways seemed  to  get  the  things  he  wanted  oftenest ! 

"/  prayed  once,  very  hard  indeed  !  I  prayed  for 
Jeannot  not  to  die !" 

"Well — but  how  do  you  repent.  Trilby,  if  you  do 
not  humble  yourself,  and  pray  for  forgiveness  on  your 
knees  ?" 

"  Oh,  well — I  don't  exactly  know !  Look  here,  Mrs. 
Bagot,  I'll  tell  you  the  lowest  and  meanest  thing  I 
ever  did.  .  .  ." 

(Mrs.  Bagot  felt  a  little  nervous.) 

"  I'd  promised  to  take  Jeannot  on  Palm-Sunday  to 
St.  Philippe  du  Koule,  to  hear  1'abbe  Bergamot.  But 
Durien  (that's  the  sculptor,  you  know)  asked  me  to 
go  with  him  to  St.  Germain,  where  there  was  a  fair, 
or  something;  and  with  Mathieu,  who  was  a  student 
in  law ;  and  a  certain  Victorine  Letellier,  who — who 
was  Mathieu' s  mistress,  in  fact.  And  I  went  on  Sun- 
day morning  to  tell  Jeannot  that  I  couldn't  take  him. 

"  He  cried  so  dreadfully  that  I  thought  I'd  give  up 
the  others  and  take  him  to  St.  Philippe,  as  I'd  prom- 
ised. But  then  Durien  and  Mathieu  and  Yictorine 


424 

drove  up  and  waited  outside,  and  so  I  didn't  take  him, 
and  went  with  them,  and  I  didn't  enjoy  anything  all 
day,  and  was  miserable. 

"  They  were  in  an  open  carriage  with  two  horses; 
it  was  Mathieu's  treat ;  and  Jeannot  might  have  ridden 
on  the  box  by  the  coachman,  without  being  in  any- 
body's way.  But  I  was  afraid  they  didn't  want  him, 
as  they  didn't  say  anything,  and  so  I  didn't  dare  ask— 
and  Jeannot  saw  us  drive  away,  and  I  couldn't  look 
back !  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  when  we  were 
half-way  to  St.  Germain,  Durien  said,  '  What  a  pity 
you  didn't  bring  Jeannot !'  and  they  were  all  sorry  I 
hadn't. 

"  It  was  six  or  seven  years  ago,  and  I  really  believe 
I've  thought  of  it  almost  every  day,  and  sometimes  in 
the  middle  of  the  night ! 

"  Ah  !  and  when  Jeannot  was  dying !  and  when  he 
was  dead — the  remembrance  of  that  Palm-Sunday  ! 

"And  if  that's  not  repenting,  I  don't  know  what  is!" 

"  Oh,  Trilby,  what  nonsense!  that's  nothing;  good 
heavens ! — putting  off  a  small  child  !  I'm  thinking  of 
far  worse  things — when  you  were  in  the  quartier  lutin, 
you  know — sitting  to  painters  and  sculptors Sure- 
ly, so  attractive  as  you  are " 

"  Oh  yes.  ...  I  know  what  you  mean — it  was  hor- 
rid, and  I  was  frightfully  ashamed  of  myself ;  and  it 
wasn't  amusing  a  bit;  nothing  was,  till  I  met  your 
son  and  Taffy  and  dear  Sandy  McAlister!  But  then 
it  wasn't  deceiving  or  disappointing  anybody,  or  hurt 
ing  their  feelings — it  was  only  hurting  myself  ! 

"  Besides,  all  that  sort  of  thing,  in  women,  is  pun- 
ished severely  enough  down  here,  God  knows  !  unless 


"'THE  REMKMBRANCE  ov  THAT  PALM-SUNDAY!'" 

one's  a  Eussian  empress  like  Catherine  the  Great,  or  a 
grande  dame  like  lots  of  them,  or  a  great  genius  like 
Madame  Kachel  or  George  Sand  ! 

"  Why,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  and  sitting  for  the 
figure,  I  should  have  felt  myself  good  enough  to  mar- 
ry your  son,  although  I  was  only  a  blanchisseuse  de 
fin — you've  said  so  yourself  ! 

"  And  I  should  have  made  him  a  good  wife — of  that 
I  feel  sure.  He  wanted  to  live  all  his  life  at  Barbizon, 
and  paint,  you  know  ;  and  didn't  care  for  society  in  the 
least.  Anyhow,  I  should  have  been  equal  to  such  a 


426 

life  as  that !  Lots  of  their  wives  are  blanchisseuses 
over  there,  or  people  of  that  sort ;  and  they  get  on 
very  well  indeed,  and  nobody  troubles  about  it ! 

"  So  I  think  I've  been  pretty  well  punished — richly 
as  I've  deserved  to !" 

"Trilby,  have  you  ever  been  confirmed?" 

"  I  forget.     I  fancy  not  I" 

"  Oh  dear,  oh  dear !  And  do  you  know  about  our 
blessed  Saviour,  and  the  Atonement  and  the  Incarna- 
tion and  the  Eesurrection.  .  ." 

"Oh  yes  —  I  used  to,  at  least.  I  used  to  have  to 
learn  the  Catechism  on  Sundays — mamma  made  me. 
Whatever  her  faults  and  mistakes  were,  poor  mamma 
was  always  very  particular  about  that !  It  all  seemed 
very  complicated.  But  papa  told  me  not  to  bother 
too  much  about  it,  but  to  be  good.  He  said  that  God 
would  make  it  all  right  for  us  somehow,  in  the  end- 
all  of  us.  And  that  seems  sensible,  doesn't  it  ? 

"He  told  me  to  be  good,  and  not  to  mind  what 
priests  and  clergymen  tell  us.  He'd  been  a  clergy- 
man himself,  and  knew  all  about  it,  he  said. 

"  I  haven't  been  very  good — there's  not  much  doubt 
about  that,  I'm  afraid.  But  God  knows  I've  repented 
often  enough  and  sore  enough  ;  I  do  now  !  But  I'm 
rather  glad  to  die,  I  think ;  and  not  a  bit  afraid — not  a 
scrap !  I  believe  in  poor  papa,  though  he  was  so  un- 
fortunate !  He  was  the  cleverest  man  I  ever  knew, 
and  the  best  —  except  Taffy  and  the  Laird  and  your 
dear  son ! 

"  There'll  be  no  hell  for  any  of  us — he  told  me  so — 
except  what  we  make  for  ourselves  and  each  other 
down  here ;  and  that's  bad  enough  for  anything.  He 


427 

told  me  that  lie  was  responsible  for  me — he  often  said 
so  —  and  that  mamma  was  too,  and  his  parents  for 
him,  and  his  grandfathers  and  grandmothers  for  them, 
and  so  on  up  to  Noah  and  ever  so  far  beyond,  and 
God  for  us  all ! 

"  lie  told  me  always  to  think  of  other  people  before 
myself,  as  Taffy  does,  and  your  son ;  and  never  to  tell 
lies  or  be  afraid,  and  keep  away  from  drink,  and  I 
should  be  all  right.  But  I've  sometimes  been  all 
wrong,  all  the  same ;  and  it  wasn't  papa's  fault,  but 
poor  mamma's  and  mine ;  and  I've  known  it,  and 
been  miserable  at  the  time,  and  after !  and  I'm  sure 
to  be  forgiven — perfectly  certain — and  so  will  every- 
body else,  even  the  wickedest  that  ever  lived  !  Why, 
just  give  them  sense  enough  in  the  next  world  to 
understand  all  their  wickedness  in  this,  and  that'll 
punish  them  enough  for  anything,  I  think !  That's 
simple  enough,  isn't  it  ?  Besides,  there  may  be  no  next 
world — that's  on  the  cards  too,  you  know  ! — and  that 
will  be  simpler  still ! 

"  Not  all  the  clergymen  in  all  the  world,  not  even 
the  Pope  of  Home,  will  ever  make  me  doubt  papa,  or 
believe  in  any  punishment  after  what  we've  all  got  to 
go  through  here !  Ce  serait  trop  bete  ! 

"  So  that  if  you  don't  Avant  me  to  very  much,  and 
he  won't  think  it  unkind,  I'd  rather  not  talk  to  Mr. 
Thomas  Bagot  about  it.  I'd  rather  talk  to  Taffy  if 
I  must.  He's  very  clever,  Taffy,  though  he  doesn't 
often  say  such  clever  things  as  your  son  does,  or  paint 
nearly  so  well ;  and  I'm  sure  he'll  think  papa  was 
right!" 

And  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  good  Taffy,  in  his  opin- 


428 

Ion  on  this  solemn  subject,  was  found  to  be  at  one 
with  the  late  Reverend  Patrick  Michael  OTerrall— 
and  so  was  the  Laird — and  so  (to  his  mother's  shocked 
and  pained  surprise)  was  Little  Billee. 

And  so  were  Sir  Oliver  Calthorpe  and  Sir  Jacob 
Wilcox  and  Doctor  Thome  and  Antony  and  Lorrimer 
and  the  Greek ! 

And  so — in  after-years,  when  grief  had  well  pierced 
and  torn  and  riddled  her  through  and  through,  and 
time  and  age  had  healed  the  wounds,  and  nothing  re- 
mained but  the  consciousness  of  great  inward  scars  of 
recollection  to  remind  her  how  deep  and  jagged  and 
wide  the  wounds  had  once  been — did  Mrs.  Bagot  her- 
self! 

Late  on  one  memorable  Saturday  afternoon,  just  as 
it  was  getting  dusk  in  Charlotte  Street,  Trilby,  in  her 
pretty  blue  dressing-gown,  lay  on  the  sofa  by  the  fire 
—her  head  well  propped,  her  knees  drawn  up — look- 
ing very  placid  and  content. 

She  had  spent  the  early  part  of  the  day  dictating 
her  will  to  the  conscientious  Taffy. 

It  was  a  simple  document,  although  she  was  not 
without  many  valuable  trinkets  to  leave :  quite  a  fort- 
une! Souvenirs  from  many  men  and  women  she  had 
charmed  by  her  singing,  from  royalties  downward. 

She  had  been  looking  them  over  with  the  faithful 
Marta,  to  whom  she  had  alwaj's  thought  they  be- 
longed. It  was  explained  to  her  that  they  were  gifts 
of  Svengali's;  since  she  did  not  remember  when  and 
where  and  by  whom  they  were  presented  to  her,  ex- 
cept a  few  that  Svengali  had  given  her  himself,  with 


439 

many  passionate  expressions  of  his  love,  which  seems 
to  have  been  deep  and  constant  and  sincere ;  none  the 
less  so,  perhaps,  that  she  could  never  return  it ! 

She  had  left  the  bulk  of  these  to  the  faithful  Marta. 

But  to  each  of  the  trois  Angliches  she  had  be- 
queathed a  beautiful  ring,  which  was  to  be  worn  by 
their  brides  if  they  ever  married,  and  the  brides  didn't 
object. 

To  Mrs.  Bagot  she  left  a  pearl  necklace;  to  Miss 
Bagot  her  gold  coronet  of  stars;  and  pretty  (and  most 
costly)  gifts  to  each  of  the  three  doctors  who  had  at- 
tended her  and  been  so  assiduous  in  their  care ;  and 
who,  as  she  was  told,  would  make  no  charge  for  at- 
tending on  Madame  Svengali.  And  studs  and  scarf- 
pins  to  Antony,  Lorrimer,  the  Greek,  Dodor,  and  Zou- 
zou  ;  and  to  Carnegie  a  little  German-silver  vinaigrette 
which  had  once  belonged  to  Lord  Witlow ;  and  pretty 
souvenirs  to  the  Vinards,  Angele  Boisse,  Durien,  and 
others. 

And  she  left  a  magnificent  gold  watch  and  chain  to 
Gecko,  with  a  most  affectionate  letter  and  a  hundred 
pounds — which  was  all  she  had  in  money  of  her  own. 

She  had  taken  great  interest  in  discussing  with 
Taffy  the  particular  kind  of  trinket  which  would  best 
suit  the  idiosyncrasy  of  each  particular  legatee,  and 
derived  great  comfort  from  the  business-like  and  sym- 
pathetic conscientiousness  with  which  the  good  Taffy 
entered  upon  all  these  minutia?  —  he  was  so  solemn 
and  serious  about  it,  and  took  such  pains.  She  little 
guessed  how  his  dumb  but  deeply  feeling  heart  was 
harrowed ! 

This  document  had  been  duly  signed  and  witnessed 


480 

and  intrusted  to  his  care  ;  and  Trilby  lay  tranquil  and 
happy,  and  with  a  sense  that  nothing  remained  for  her 
but  to  enjoy  the  fleeting  hour,  and  make  the  most  of 
each  precious  moment  as  it  went  by. 

She  was  quite  without  pain  of  either  mind  or  body, 
and  surrounded  by  the  people  she  adored — Taffy,  the 
Laird,  and  Little  Billee,  and  Mrs.  Bagot,  and  Marta, 
who  sat  knitting  in  a  corner  with  her  black  mittens 
on,  and  her  brass  spectacles. 

She  listened  to  the  chat  and  joined  in  it,  laughing 
as  usual ;  "love  in  her  eyes  sat  playing,"  as  she  looked 
from  one  to  another,  for  she  loved  them  all  beyond 
expression.  "Love  on  her  lips  was  straying,  and 
warbling  in  her  breath,"  whenever  she  spoke;  and 
her  weakened  voice  was  still  larger,  fuller,  softer  than 
any  other  voice  in  the  room,  in  the  world — of  another 
kind,  from  another  sphere. 

A  cart  drove  up,  there  was  a  ring  at  the  door,  and 
presently  a  wooden  packing-case  was  brought  into  the 
room. 

At  Trilby's  request  it  was  opened,  and  found  to  con- 
tain a  large  photograph,  framed  and  glazed,  of  Sven- 
gali,  in  the  military  uniform  of  his  own  Hungarian 
band,  and  looking  straight  out  of  the  picture,  straight 
at  you.  lie  was  standing  by  his  desk  with  his  left 
hand  turning  over  a  leaf  of  music,  and  waving  his 
baton  with  his  right.  It  was  a  splendid  photograph, 
by  a  Viennese  photographer,  and  a  most  speaking 
likeness ;  and  Svengali  looked  truly  fine — all  made  up 
of  importance  and  authority,  and  his  big  black  eyes 
were  full  of  stern  command. 

Marta  trembled  as  she  looked.     It  was  handed  to 


432 


Trilby,  who  exclaimed  in  surprise.  She  had  never 
seen  it.  She  had  no  photograph  of'  him,  and  had 
never  possessed  one. 

No  message  of  any  kind,  no  letter  of  explanation, 
accompanied  this  unexpected  present,  which,  from  the 
postmarks  on  the  case,  seemed  to  have  travelled  all 

over  Europe  to  London, 
out  of  some  remote  prov- 
ince in  eastern  Russia- 
out  of  the  mysterious  East! 
The  poisonous  East — birth- 
place and  home  of  an  ill 
wind  that  blows  nobody 
good. 

Trilby  laid  it  against  her 
logs  as  on  a  lectern,  and 
lay  gazing  at  it  with  close 
attention  for  a  long  time, 
making  a  casual  remark 
now  and  then,  as,  "  He  was 
very  handsome,  I  think  "  ; 
or,  "That  uniform  be- 
comes him  very  well. 
"VVhy  has  he  got  it  on,  I 
wonder  ?" 

The  others  went  on  talk- 
ing, and  Mrs.  Bagot  made 
coffee. 

Presently  Mrs.  Bagot  took  a  cup  of  coffee  to  Trilby, 
and  found  her  still  staring  intently  at  the  portrait,  but 
with  her  eyes  dilated,  and  quite  a  strange  light  in 
them. 


1  OUT    OF    THK    MYSTERIOUS    EAST 


433 

"  Trilby,  Trilby,  your  coffee  !  "What  is  the  matter, 
Trilby?" 

Trilby  was  smiling,  with  fixed  eyes,  and  made  no 
answer. 

The  others  got  up  and  gathered  round  her  in  some 
alarm.  Marta  seemed  terror-stricken,  and  wished  to 
snatch  the  photograph  away,  but  was  prevented  from 
doing  so;  one  didn't  know  what  the  consequences 
might  be. 

Taffy  rang  the  bell,  and  sent  a  servant  for  Dr. 
Thome,  who  lived  close  by,  in  Fitzroy  Square. 

Presently  Trilby  began  to  speak,  quite  softly,  in 
French:  "Encore  une  fois?  bon  !  je  veux  bien!  avec 
la  voix  blanche  alors,  n'est-ce  pas?  et  puis  foncer  au 
milieu.  Et  pas  trop  vite  en  commen9ant !  Battez  bien 
la  mesure,  Svengali — que  je  puisse  bien  voir — caril  fait 
cleja  nuit !  c'est  ca!  Allons,  Gecko — donne-moi  le  ton !" 

Then  she  smiled,  and  seemed  to  beat  time  softly  by 
moving  her  head  a  little  from  side  to  side,  her  eyes 
intent  on,  Svengali's  in  the  portrait,  and  suddenly  she 
began  to  sing  Chopin's  Impromptu  in  A  flat. 

She  hardly  seemed  to  breathe  as  the  notes  came 
pouring  out,  without  words — mere  vocalizing.  It  was 
as  if  breath  were  unnecessary  for  so  little  voice  as  she 
was  using,  though  there  was  enough  of  it  to  fill  the 
room — to  fill  the  house — to  drown  her  small  audience 
in  holy,  heavenly  sweetness. 

She  was  a  consummate  mistress  of  her  art.  How 
that  could  be  seen!  And  also  how  splendid  had  been 
her  training !  It  all  seemed  as  easy  to  her  as  opening 
and  shutting  her  eyes,  and  yet  how  utterly  impossible 
to  anvbody  else! 


484 

Between  wonder,  enchantment,  and  alarm  they  were 
frozen  to  statues — all  except  Marta,  who  ran  out  of 
the  room,  crying :  "Gott  im  Himmel!  wieder  zuriick ! 
wieder  zuriick !" 

She  sang  it  just  as  she  had  sung  it  at  the  Salle  des 
Bashibazoucks,  only  it  sounded  still  more  ineffably 
seductive,  as  she  was  using  less  voice  —  using  the  es- 
sence of  her  voice,  in  fact  —  the  pure  spirit,  the  very 
cream  of  it. 

There  can  be  little  doubt  that  these  four  watchers 
by  that  enchanted  couch  were  listening  to  not  only 
the  most  divinely  beautiful,  but  also  the  most  astound- 
ing feat  of  musical  utterance  ever  heard  out  of  a 
human  throat. 

The  usual  effect  was  produced.  Tears  were  stream- 
ing down  the  cheeks  of  Mrs.  Bagot  and  Little  Billee. 
Tears  were  in  the  Laird's  eyes,  a  tear  on  one  of  Taf- 
fy's whiskers — tears  of  sheer  delight. 

When  she  came  back  to  the  quick  movement  again, 
after  the  adagio,  her  voice  grew  louder  and  shriller, 
and  sweet  with  a  sweetness  not  of  this  earth;  and 
went  on  increasing  in  volume  as  she  quickened  the 
time,  nearing  the  end;  and  then  came  the  dying  away 
into  all  but  nothing  —  a  mere  melodic  breath;  and 
then  the  little  soft  chromatic  ascending  rocket,  up  to 
E  in  alt,  the  last  parting  caress  (which  Svengali  had 
introduced  as  a  finale,  for  it  does  not  exist  in  the 
piano  score). 

"When  it  was  over,  she  said  :  "  Qa  y  est-il,  cette  fois, 
Svengali  ?  Ah !  tant  mieux,  a  la  fin !  c'est  pas  mal- 
heureux  !  Et  maintenant,  mon  ami,  je  suis  fatiguee — 
soir  /" 


435 

Her  head  fell  back  on  the  pillow,  and  she  lay  fast 
asleep. 

Mrs.  Bagot  took  the  portrait  away  gently.  Little 
Billee  knelt  down  and  held  Trilby's  hand  in  his  and 
felt  for  her  pulse,  and  could  not  find  it. 

He  said,  "  Trilby !  Trilby !"  and  put  his  ear  to  her 
mouth  to  hear  her  breathe.  Her  breath  was  inaudi- 
ble. 

But  soon  she  folded  her  hands  across  her  breast, 
and  uttered  a  little  short  sigh,  and  in  a  weak  voice 
said  :  "  Svengali.  . .  .  Svengali.  .  .  .  Svengali  !  .  .  ." 

They  remained  in  silence  round  her  for  several  min- 
utes, terror-stricken. 

The  doctor  came ;  he  put  his  hand  to  her  heart,  his 
ear  to  her  lips.  He  turned  up  one  of  her  eyelids  and 
looked  at  her  eye.  And  then,  his  voice  quivering  with 
strong  emotion,  he  stood  up  and  said,  "  Madame  Sven- 
gali's  trials  and  sufferings  are  all  over !" 

"  Oh,  good  God !  is  she  dead  ?"  cried  Mrs.  Bagot. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Bagot.  She  has  been  dead  several  min- 
utes— perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 


VINGT  ANS  APRfiS 

POETHOS  -  ATHOS,  alias  Taffy  "Wynne,  is  sitting  to 
breakfast  (opposite  his  wife)  at  a  little  table  in  the 
court-yard  of  that  huge  caravanserai  on  the  Boulevard 
des  Capucines,  Paris,  where  he  had  sat  more  than 
twenty  vears  ago  with  the  Laird  and  Little  Billee; 
where,  in  fact,  he  had  pulled  Svengali's  nose. 

Little  is  changed  in  the  aspect  of  the  place:  the 


486 

same  cosmopolite  company,  with  more  of  the  Ameri 
can  element,  perhaps ;  the  same  arrivals  and  depart- 
ures  in  railway  omnibuses,  cabs,  hired  carriages;  and, 
airing  his  calves  on  the  marble  steps,  stood  just  such 
another  colossal  and  beautiful  old  man  in  black  cloth 
coat  and  knee-breeches  and  silk  stockings  as  of  yore, 
with  probably  the  very  same  pinchbeck  chain.  Where 
do  they  breed  these  magnificent  old  Frenchmen  ?  In 
Germany,  perhaps,  "  where  all  the  good  big  waiters 
come  from !" 

And  also  the  same  fine  weather.  It  is  always  fine 
weather  in  the  court-yard  of  the  Grand  Hotel.  As 
the  Laird  would  say,  they  manage  these  things  better 
there ! 

Taffy  wears  a  short  beard,  which  is  turning  gray. 
His  kind  blue  eye  is  no  longer  choleric,  but  mild  and 
friendly — as  frank  as  ever ;  and  full  of  humorous  pa- 
tience. He  has  grown  stouter  ;  he  is  very  big  indeed, 
in  all  three  dimensions,  but  the  symmetry  and  the 
gainliness  of  the  athlete  belong  to  him  still  in  move- 
ment and  repose ;  and  his  clothes  fit  him  beautifully, 
though  they  are  not  new,  and  show  careful  beating 
and  brushing  and  ironing,  and  even  a  faint  suspicion 
of  all  but  imperceptible  fine-drawing  here  and  there. 

What  a  magnificent  old  man  lie  will  make  some  day, 
should  the  Grand  Hotel  ever  run  short  of  them !  He 
looks  as  if  he  could  be  trusted  down  to  the  ground — 
in  all  things,  little  or  big ;  as  if  his  word  were  as  good 
as  his  bond,  and  even  better;  his  wink  as  good  as  his 
word,  his  nod  as  good  as  his  wink ;  and,  in  truth,  as  he 
looks,  so  he  is. 

The  most  cynical  disbeliever  in  "  the  grand  old  name 


488 

of  gentleman,''  and  its  virtues  as  a  noun  of  definition, 
\vould  almost  be  justified  in  quite  dogmatically  assert 
ing  at  sight,  and  without  even  being  introduced,  that, 
at  all  events,  Taffy  is  a  "  gentleman,"  inside  and  out, 
up  and  down — from  the  crown  of  his  head  (which  is  get- 
ting rather  bald)  to  the  sole  of  his  foot  (by  no  means 
a  small  one,  or  a  lightly  shod — ex  pede  Herculem) ! 

Indeed,  this  is  always  the  first  thing  people  say  of 
Taffy — and  the  last.  It  means,  perhaps,  that  he  may 
be  a  trifle  dull.  Well,  one  can't  be  everything! 

Porthos  was  a  trifle  dull — and  so  was  Athos,  I  think ; 
and  likewise  his  son,  the  faithful  Viscount  of  Brage- 
lonne — ban  chien  chasse  de  race  !  And  so  was  Wilfred 
of  Ivanhoe,  the  disinherited;  and  Edgar,  the  Lord  of 
Ravenswood !  and  so,  for  that  matter,  was  Colonel 
Newcome,  of  immortal  memory  ! 

Yet  who  does  not  love  them — who  would  not  wish 
to  be  like  them,  for  better,  for  worse ! 

Taffy's  wife  is  unlike  Taffy  in  many  ways;  but 
(fortunately  for  both)  very  like  him  in  some.  She  is  a 
little  woman,  very  well  shaped,  very  dark,  with  black, 
wavy  hair,  and  very  small  hands  and  feet ;  a  very 
graceful,  handsome,  and  vivacious  person;  by  no 
means  dull ;  full,  indeed,  of  quick  perceptions  and  in- 
tuitions ;  deeply  interested  in  all  that  is  going  on  about 
and  around  her,  and  with  always  lots  to  say  about  it, 
but  not  too  much. 

She  distinctly  belongs  to  the  rare,  and  ever-blessed, 
and  most  precious  race  of  charmers. 

She  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  stalwart  Taffy  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  in  the  Place  St.  Ana- 
tole  des  Arts,  where  he  and  she  and  her  mother  had 


"TOUT    VIENT    A    POINT,  POUR    QUI    SAIT    ATTENDEE !" 

tended  the  sick -couch  of  Little  Billee — but  she  had 
never  told  her  love.  Tout  vient  d point, pour  qui  salt 
attendre  ! 

That  is  a  capital  proverb,  and  sometimes  even  a  true 
one.  Blanche  Bagot  had  found  it  to  be  both ! 

One  terrible  night,  never  to  be  forgotten,  Taffy  lay 
fast  asleep  in  bed,  at  his  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street,  for 
he  was  very  tired ;  grief  tires  more  than  anything,  and 
brings  a  deeper  slumber. 


440 

That  day  he  had  followed  Trilby  to  her  last  home  in 
Kensal  Green,  with  Little  Billee,  Mrs.  Bagot,  the  Laird, 
Antony,  the  Greek,  and  Durien  (who  had  come  over 
from  Paris  on  purpose)  as  chief  mourners ;  and  very 
many  other  people,  noble,  famous,  or  otherwise,  English 
and  foreign ;  a  splendid  and  most  representative  gather- 
ing, as  was  duly  chronicled  in  all  the  newspapers  here 
and  abroad ;  a  fitting  ceremony  to  close  the  brief  but 
splendid  career  of  the  greatest  pleasure  -  giver  of  our 
time. 

He  was  awakened  by  a  tremendous  ringing  at  the 
street-door  bell,  as  if  the  house  were  on  fire ;  and  then 
there  was  a  hurried  scrambling  up  in  the  dark,  a  tum- 
bling over  stairs  and  kicking  against  banisters,  and 
Little  Billee  had  burst  into  his  room,  calling  out :  "  Oh ! 
Taffy,  Taffy !  I'm  g-going  mad — I'm  g-going  m-mad ! 
I'm  d-d-done  for  . .  ." 

"  All  right,  old  fellow — just  wait  till  I  strike  a  light !" 

"  Oh,  Taffy  !  I  haven't  slept  for  four  nights — not  a 
wink!  She  d-d-died  with  Sv — Sv — Sv  .  .  .  damn  it,  I 
can't  get  it  out !  that  ruffian's  name  on  her  lips! ...  it 
was  just  as  if  he  were  calling  her  from  the  t-t-tomb ! 
She  recovered  her  senses  the  very  minute  she  saw  his 
photograph  —  she  was  so  f-fond  of  him  she  f-forgot 
everybody  else !  She's  gone  straight  to  him,  after  all 
— in  some  other  life! . . .  to  slave  for  him,  and  sing  for 
him,  and  help  him  to  make  better  music  than  ever ! 
Oh,  T— T— oh— oh  !  Taffy— oh!  oh!  oh!  catch  hold! 
c-c-catch  ..."  And  Little  Billee  had  all  but  fallen  on 
the  floor  in  a  fit. 

And  all  the  old  miserable  business  of  five  years  be- 
fore had  begun  over  again  ! 


441 


There  has  been  too  much  sickness  in  this  story,  so  I 
will  tell  as  little  as  possible  of  poor  Little  Billee's  long 
illness,  his  slow  and  only  partial  recovery,  the  paraly- 
sis of  his  powers  as  a  painter,  his  quick  decline,  his 
early  death,  his  manly,  calm,  and  most  beautiful  sur- 
render—  the  wedding  of  the  moth  with  the  star,  of 
the  night  with  the 
morrow ! 

For  all  but  blame- 
less as  his  short  life 
had  been,  and  so  full 
of  splendid  promise 


"  I,  PETE    COELESTES.  .  .  ." 


442 

and  performance,  nothing  ever  became  him  better 
than  the  way  he  left  it.  It  was  as  if  he  were  starting 
on  some  distant  holy  quest,  like  some  gallant  knight 
of  old — "  A  Bagot  to  the  Rescue  !M  It  shook  the  in- 
fallibility of  a  certain  vicar  down  to  its  very  founda- 
tions, and  made  him  think  more  deeply  about  things 
than  he  had  ever  thought  yet.  It  gave  him  pause ! 
.  .  .  and  so  wrung  his  heart  that  when,  at  the  last,  he 
stooped  to  kiss  his  poor  young  dead  friend's  pure 
white  forehead,  he  dropped  a  bigger  tear  on  it  than 
Little  Billee  (once  so  given  to  the  dropping  of  big 
tears)  had  ever  dropped  in  his  life. 

But  it  is  all  too  sad  to  write  about. 

It  was  by  Little  Billee's  bedside,  in  Devonshire,  that 
Taffy  had  grown  to  love  Blanche  Bagot,  and  not  very 
many  weeks  after  it  was  all  over  that  Taffy  had  asked 
her  to  be  his  wife ;  and  in  a  year  they  were  married, 
and  a  very  happy  marriage  it  turned  out  —  the  one 
thing  that  poor  Mrs.  Bagot  still  looks  upon  as  a  com- 
pensation for  all  the  griefs  and  troubles  of  her  life. 

During  the  first  year  or  two  Blanche  had  perhaps 
been  the  most  ardently  loving  of  this  well  -  assorted 
pair.  That  beautiful  look  of  love  surprised  (which 
makes  all  women's  eyes  look  the  same)  came  into  hers 
whenever  she  looked  at  Taffy,  and  filled  his  heart  with 
tender  compunction,  and  a  queer  sense  of  his  own  un- 
worthiness. 

Then  a  boy  was  born  to  them,  and  that  look  fell  on 
the  boy,  and  the  good  Taffy  caught  it  as  it  passed  him 
by,  and  he  felt  a  helpless,  absurd  jealousy,  that  was  none 
the  less  painful  for  being  so  ridiculous!  and  then  that 
look  fell  on  another  boy  and  yet  another,  so  that  it 


443 

was  through  these  boys  that  she  looked  at  their  father. 
Then  his  eyes  caught  the  look,  and  kept  it  for  their 
own  use ;  and  he  grew  never  to  look  at  his  wife  with- 
out it ;  and  as  no  daughter  came,  she  retained  for  life 
the  monopoly  of  that  most  sweet  and  expressive  regard. 

They  are  not  very  rich.  He  is  a  far  better  sports- 
man than  he  will  ever  be  a  painter  ;  and  if  he  doesn't 
sell  his  pictures,  it  is  not  because  they  are  too  good 
for  the  public  taste :  indeed,  he  has  no  illusions  on 
that  score  himself,  even  if  his  wife  has!  He  is  quite 
the  least  conceited  art-duffer  I  ever  met — and  I  have 
met  many  far  worse  duffers  than  Taffy. 

Would  only  that  I  might  kill  off  his  cousin  Sir 
Oscar,  and  Sir  Oscar's  five  sons  (the  Wynnes  are  good 
at  sons),  and  his  seventeen  grandsons,  and  the  four- 
teen cousins  (and  their  numerous  male  progeny),  that 
stand  between  Taffy  and  the  baronetcy,  and  whatever 
property  goes  with  it,  so  that  he  might  be  Sir  Taffy, 
and  dear  Blanche  Bagot  (that  was)  might  be  called 
"  my  lady  "  !  This  Shakespearian  holocaust  would 
scarcely  cost  me  a  pang! 

It  is  a  great  temptation,  when  you  have  duly  slain 
your  first  hero,  to  enrich  hero  number  two  beyond  the 
dreams  of  avarice,  and  provide  him  with  a  title  and  a 
castle  and  park,  as  well  as  a  handsome  wife  and  a  nice 
family !  But  truth  is  inexorable — and,  besides,  they 
are  just  as  happy  as  they  are. 

They  are  well  off  enough,  anyhow,  to  spend  a  wreek 
in  Paris  at  last,  and  even  to  stop  at  the  Grand  Hotel ! 
now  that  two  of  their  sons  are  at  Harrow  (where  their 
father  was  before  them),  and  the  third  is  safe  at  a 
preparatory  school  at  Elstree,  Herts. 


444 

It  is  their  first  outing  since  the  honeymoon,  and 
the  Laird  should  have  come  with  them. 

But  the  good  Laird  of  Cockpen  (who  is  now  a 
famous  Royal  Academician)  is  preparing  for  a  honey- 
moon of  his  own.  He  has  gone  to  Scotland  to  be 
married  himself  —  to  wed  a  fair  and  clever  country- 
woman of  just  a  suitable  age,  for  he  has  known  her 
ever  since  she  was  a  bright  little  lassie  in  short  frocks, 
and  he  a  promising  A.R.A.  (the  pride  of  his  native 
Dundee) — a  marriage  of  reason,  and  well-seasoned  af- 
fection, and  mutual  esteem  —  and  therefore  sure  to 
turn  out  a  happy  one !  and  in  another  fortnight  or  so 
the  pair  of  them  will  very  possibly  be  sitting  to  break- 
fast opposite  each  other  at  that  very  corner  table  in 
the  court-yard  of  the  Grand  Hotel!  and  she  will  laugh 
at  everything  he  says — and  they  will  live  happily  ever 
after. 

So  much  for  hero  number  three  —  D'Artagnan ! 
Here's  to  you,  Sandy  McAlister,  canniest,  genialest, 
and  most  humorous  of  Scots !  most  delicate,  and 
dainty,  and  fanciful  of  British  painters !  "  I  trink 
your  health,  mit  your  family's  —  may  you  lif  long  — 
and  brosper !" 

So  Taffy  and  his  wife  have  come  for  their  second 
honeymoon,  their  Indian -summer  honeymoon,  alone; 
and  are  well  content  that  it  should  be  so.  Two's 
always  company  for  such  a  pair  —  the  amusing  one 
and  the  amusable !  —  and  they  are  making  the  most 
of  it! 

They  have  been  all  over  the  quartier  latin,  and  re- 
visited the  well -remembered  spots;  and  even  been  al- 


445 

lowed  to  enter  the  old  studio,  through  the  kindness  of 
the  concierge  (who  is  no  longer  Madame  Vinard).  It 
is  tenanted  by  two  American  painters,  who  are  coldly 
civil  on  being  thus  disturbed  in  the  middle  of  their 
work. 

The  studio  is  very  spick  and  span,  and  most  re- 
spectable. Trilby's  foot,  and  the  poem,  and  the  sheet 
of  plate-glass  have  been  improved  away,  and  a  book- 
shelf put  in  their  place.  The  new  concierge  (who 
has  only  been  there  a  year)  knows  nothing  of  Trilby, 
and  of  the  Vinards,  only  that  they  are  rich  and  pros- 
perous, and  live  somewhere  in  the  south  of  France, 
and  that  Monsieur  Yinard  is  mayor  of  his  commune. 
Que  le  bon  Dieu  les  benisse  !  c'etaient  de  bien  braves 
gens. 

Then  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Taffy  have  also  been  driven  (in 
an  open  caleche  with  two  horses)  through  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne  to  St.  Cloud  ;  and  to  Versailles,  where  they 
lunched  at  the  Hotel  des  Reservoirs — parlez-moi  de 
ga  !  and  to  St.  Germain,  and  to  Meudon  (where  they 
lunched  at  la  loge  du  garde  champetre  —  a  new  one) ; 
they  have  visited  the  Salon,  the  Louvre,  the  porcelain 
manufactory  at  Sevres,  the  Gobelins,  the  Hotel  Cluny, 
the  Invalides,  with  Napoleon's  tomb,  and  seen  half  a 
dozen  churches,  including  Notre  Dame  and  the  Sainte 
Chapelle;  and  dined  with  the  Dodors  at  their  charm- 
ing villa  near  Asnieres,  and  with  the  Zouzous  at  the 
splendid  Hotel  de  la  Eochemartel,  and  with  the  Du- 
riens  in  the  Pare  Monceau  (Dodor's  food  was  best  and 
Zouzou's  worst ;  and  at  Durien's  the  company  and 
talk  were  so  good  that  one  forgot  to  notice  the  food — 
and  that  was  a  pity).  And  the  young  Dodors  are  all 


446 

right  —  and  so  are  the  young  Duriens.  As  for  the 
young  Zouzous,  there  aren't  any  —  and  that's  a  re- 
lief. 

And  they've  been  to  the  Vari£tes  and  seen  Ma 
dame  Chaumont,  and  to  the  Francais  and  seen  Sarah 
Bernhardt  and  Coquelin  and  Delaunay,  and  to  the 
Opera  and  heard  Monsieur  Lassalle. 

And  to-day  being  their  last  day,  they  are  going  to 
laze  and  flane  about  the  boulevards,  and  buy  things, 
and  lunch  anywhere,  "  sur  le  pouce,"  and  do  the  Bois 
once  more  and  see  tout  Paris,  and  dine  early  at  Du- 
rand's,  or  Bignon's  (or  else  the  Cafe  des  Ambassa- 
deurs),  and  finish  up  the  well  -  spent  day  at  the 
"Mouches  d'Espagne" — the  new  theatre  in  the  Boule- 
vard Poissonniere  —  to  see  Madame  Cantharidi  in 
"  Petits  Bonheurs  de  Contrebande,"  which  they  are 
told  is  immensely  droll  and  quite  proper — funny  with- 
out being  vulgar!  Dodor  was  their  informant  —  he 
had  taken  Madame  Dodor  to  see  it  three  or  four 
times. 

Madame  Cantharidi,  as  everybody  knows,  is  a  very 
clever  but  extremely  plain  old  woman  with  a  cracked 
voice  —  of  spotless  reputation,  and  the  irreproachable 
mother  of  a  grown-up  family  whom  she  has  brought 
up  in  perfection.  They  have  never  been  allowed  to 
see  their  mother  (and  grandmother)  act — not  even  the 
sons.  Their  excellent  father  (who  adores  both  them 
and  her)  has  drawn  the  line  at  that ! 

In  private  life  she  is  "quite  the  lady,"  but  on  the 
stage  —  well,  go  and  see  her,  and  you  will  understand 
how  she  comes  to  be  the  idol  of  the  Parisian  public. 
For  she  is  the  true  and  liberal  dispenser  to  them  of 


447 

that  modern  "esprit  gaulois"  which  would  make  the 
good  Rabelais  turn  uneasily  in  his  grave  and  blush 
there  like  a  Benedictine  Sister. 

And  trulv  she  deserves  the  reverential  love  and 
gratitude  of  her  chers  Parisiens !  She  amused  them 
all  through  the  Empire ;  during  the  annee  terrible  she 
was  their  only  stay  and  comfort,  and  has  been  their 
chief  delight  ever  since,  and  is  now. 

When  they  come  back  from  La  Revanche,  may 
Madame  Cantharidi  be  still  at  her  post, "  Les  mouches 


"PETITS    BONBEURS    DE    CONTREBANDE " 

d'Espagne,"  to  welcome  the  returning  heroes,  and 
exult  and  crow  with  them  in  her  funny  cracked  old 
voice;  or,  haply,  even  console  them  once  more,  as  the 
case  may  be. 

"Victors  or  vanquished,  they  will  laugh  the 
same !" 

Mrs.  Taffy  is  a  poor  French  scholar.     One  must 


448 

know  French  very  well  indeed  (and  many  other 
things  besides)  to  seize  the  subtle  points  of  Madame 
Cantharidi's  play  (and  by-play) ! 

But  Madame  Cantharidi  has  so  droll  a  face  and 
voice,  and  such  very  droll,  odd  movements  that  Mrs. 
Taffy  goes  into  fits  of  laughter  as  soon  as  the  quaint 
little  old  lady  comes  on  the  stage.  So  heartily  does 
she  laugh  that  a  good  Parisian  bourgeois  turns  round 
and  remarks  to  his  wife :  "  Vld  une  jolie  p'tite  An- 
glaise  qui  n'est  pas  begueule,  au  moins!  Et  1'  gros 
boeuf  avec  les  yeux  bleus  en  boules  de  loto — c'est  son 
mari,  sans  doute !  il  n'a  pas  1'air  trop  content  par  ex- 
emple,  celui-la !" 

The  fact  is  that  the  good  Taffy  (who  knows  French 
very  well  indeed)  is  quite  scandalized,  and  very  angry 
with  Dodor  for  sending  them  there;  and  as  soon  as 
the  first  act  is  finished  he  means,  without  any  fuss,  to 
take  his  wife  away. 

As  he  sits  patiently,  too  indignant  to  laugh  at  what 
is  really  funny  in  the  piece  (much  of  it  is  vulgar  with- 
out being  funny),  he  finds  himself  watching  a  little 
white-haired  man  in  the  orchestra,  a  fiddler,  the  shape 
of  whose  back  seems  somehow  familiar,  as  he  plays  an 
obUigato  accompaniment  to  a  very  broadly  comic  song 
of  Madame  Cantharidi's.  He  plays  beautifully — like 
a  master — and  the  loud  applause  is  as  much  for  him  as 
for  the  vocalist. 

Presently  this  fiddler  turns  his  head  so  that  his  pro- 
file can  be  seen,  and  Taffy  recognizes  him. 

After  five  minutes'  thought,  Taffy  takes  a  leaf  out 
of  his  pocket-book  and  writes  (in  perfectly  grammat- 
ical French) : 


449 

"DEAR  GECKO,  —  You  have  not  forgotten  Taffy 
Wynne,  I  hope;  and  Litrebili,  and  Litrebili's  sister, 
who  is  now  Mrs.  Taffy  Wynne.  We  leave  Paris  to- 
morrow, and  would  like  very  much  to  see  you  once 
more.  Will  you,  after  the  play,  come  and  sup  with 
us  at  the  Cafe  Anglais?  If  so,  look  up  and  make 
'  yes '  with  the  head,  and  enchant 

"  Your  well-devoted  TAFFY  WYNNE." 

He  gives  this,  folded,  to  an  attendant — for  "  le  pre- 
mier violon — celui  qui  a  des  cheveux  blancs." 

Presently  he  sees  Gecko  receive  the  note  and  read 
it  and  ponder  for  a  while. 

Then  Gecko  looks  round  the  theatre,  and  Taffy 
waves  his  handkerchief  and  catches  the  eye  of  the 
premier  violon,  who  "makes  'yes'  with  the  head." 

And  then,  the  first  act  over,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wynne 
leave  the  theatre ;  Mr.  explaining  why,  and  Mrs.  very 
ready  to  go,  as  she  was  beginning  to  feel  strangely 
uncomfortable  without  quite  realizing  as  yet  what 
was  amiss  with  the  lively  Madame  Cantharidi. 

They  went  to  the  Cafe  Anglais  and  bespoke  a  nice 
little  room  on  the  entresol  overlooking  the  boulevard, 
and  ordered  a  nice  little  supper;  salmi  of  something 
very  good,  mayonnaise  of  lobster,  and  one  or  two 
other  dishes  better  still — and  chambertin  of  the  best. 
Taffy  was  particular  about  these  things  on  a  holiday, 
and  regardless  of  expense.  Porthos  was  very  hospi- 
table, and  liked  good  food  and  plenty  of  it ;  and  Athos 
dearly  loved  good  wine  ! 

And  then  they  went  and  sat  at  a  little  round  table 
outside  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  on  the  boulevard,  neai 


450 

the  Grand  Op6ra,  where  it  is  always  very  gay,  and 
studied  Paris  life,  and  nursed  their  appetites  till  sup- 
per-time. 

At  half-past  eleven  Gecko  made  his  appearance- 
very  meek  and  humble.  He  looked  old — ten  years 
older  than  he  really  was — much  bowed  down,  and  as 
if  he  had  roughed  it  all  his  life,  and  had  found  living 
a  desperate  long,  hard  grind. 

He  kissed  Mrs.  Taffy's  hand,  and  seemed  half  in- 
clined to  kiss  Taffy's  too,  and  was  almost  tearful  in 
his  pleasure  at  meeting  them  again,  and  his  gratitude 
at  being  asked  to  sup  with  them.  He  had  soft,  cling- 
ing, caressing  manners,  like  a  nice  dog's,  that  made 
you  his  friend  at  once.  He  was  obviously  genuine 
and  sincere,  and  quite  pathetically  simple,  as  he  al- 
ways had  been. 

At  first  he  could  scarcely  eat  for  nervous  excite- 
ment; but  Taffy's  line  example  and  Mrs.  Taffy's  ge- 
nial, easy-going  cordiality  (and  a  couple  of  glasses  of 
chambertin)  soon  put  him  at  his  ease  and  woke  up  his 
dormant  appetite ;  which  was  a  very  large  one,  poor 
fellow  I 

He  was  told  all  about  Little  Billee's  death,  and 
deeply  moved  to  hear  the  cause  which  had  brought 
it  about,  and  then  they  talked  of  Trilby. 

He  pulled  her  watch  out  of  his  waistcoat  -  pocket 
and  reverently  kissed  it,  exclaiming:  "  Ah  !  c'etait  un 
ange!  un  ange  du  Paradis!  when  I  tell  you  I  lived 
with  them  for  five  years!  Oh!  her  kindness,  Dio,  dio 
Maria  !  It  was  '  Gecko  this!'  and  '  Gecko  that !'  and 
'  Poor  Gecko,  your  toothache,  how  it  worries  me !'  and 
*  Gecko,  how  tired  and  pale  you  look — you  distress 


KMKK   GECKO 


453 

me  so,  looking  like  that!  Shall  I  mix  you  a  raai- 
trank  ?'  And  '  Gecko,  you  love  artichokes  a  la  Bari- 
goule ;  they  remind  you  of  Paris — I  have  heard  you 
say  so.  Well,  I  have  found  out  where  to  get  arti- 
chokes, and  I  know  how  to  do  them  d  la  Barigoule, 
and  you  shall  have  them  for  dinner  to-day  and  to- 
morrow and  all  the  week  after !'  and  we  did ! 

"  Ach !  dear  kind  one — what  did  I  really  care  for 
artichokes  &  la  Barigoule  ?  .  .  . 

"And  it  was  always  like  that  —  always  —  and  to 
Svengali  and  old  Marta  just  the  same !  and  she  was 
never  well — never !  toujours  souffrante ! 

"  And  it  was  she  who  supported  us  all — in  luxury 
and  splendor  sometimes !" 

"  And  what  an  artist !"  said  Taffy. 

"Ah,  yes!  but  all  that  was  Svengali,  you  know. 
Svengali  was  the  greatest  artist  I  ever  met !  Mon- 
sieur, Svengali  was  a  demon,  a  magician !  I  used  to 
think  him  a  god !  He  found  me  playing  in  the  streets 
for  copper  coins,  and  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  was 
my  only  friend,  and  taught  me  all  I  ever  knew — and 
yet  he  could  not  play  my  instrument ! 

"  And  now  he  is  dead,  I  have  forgotten  how  to  play  it 
myself !  That  English  jail !  it  demoralized  me,  ruined 
me  forever !  ach !  quel  enfer,  nom  de  Dieu  (pardon,  ma- 
dame)!  I  am  just  good  enough  to  play  the  oblligafa  at 
the  Mouches  d'Espagne,  when  the  old  Cantharidi  sings, 

'"Via  mon  mari  qui  r'garde 

Prends  garde— ue  m'chatouille  plus  !' 

"  It  does  not  want  much  of  an  obbligato,  hein,  a 
song  so  noble  and  so  beautiful  as  that ! 


453 

"  And  that  song,  monsieur,  all  Paris  is  singing  it 
now.  And  that  is  the  Paris  that  went  mad  when 
Trilby  sang  the '  Nussbaum '  of  Schumann  at  the  Salle 
des  Bashibazoucks.  You  heard  her  ?  Well  1" 

And  here  poor  Gecko  tried  to  laugh  a  little  sardonic 
laugh  in  falsetto,  like  Svengali's,  full  of  scorn  and  bit- 
terness— and  very  nearly  succeeded. 

"But  what  made  you  strike  him  with — with  that 
knife,  you  know  ?" 

"Ah,  monsieur,  it  had  been  coming  on  for  a  long 
time.  He  used  to  work  Trilby  too  hard ;  it  was  kill- 
ing her — it  killed  her  at  last !  And  then  at  the  end 
he  was  unkind  to  her  and  scolded  her  and  called  her 
names — horrid  names — and  then  one  day  in  London 
he  struck  her.  He  struck  her  on  the  fingers  with  his 
baton,  and  she  fell  down  on  her  knees  and  cried  .  .  . 

"  Monsieur,  I  would  have  defended  Trilby  against 
a  locomotive  going  grande  vitesse!  against  my  own 
father — against  the  Emperor  of  Austria — against  the 
Pope !  and  I  am  a  good  Catholic,  monsieur !  I  would 
have  gone  to  the  scaffold  for  her,  and  to  the  devil 
after !" 

And  he  piously  crossed  himself. 

"But,  Svengali — wasn't  he  very  fond  of  her?" 

"  Oh  yes,  monsieur !  quant  a  ca,  passionately !  But 
she  did  not  love  him  as  he  wished  to  be  loved.  She 
loved  Litrebili,  monsieur !  Litrebili,  the  brother  of 
madame.  And  I  suppose  that  Svengali  grew  angry 
and  jealous  at  last.  He  changed  as  soon  as  he  came 
to  Paris.  Perhaps  Paris  reminded  him  of  Litrebili — 
and  reminded  Trilby,  too !" 

"But  how  on  earth  did  Svengali  ever  manage  to 


454 

teach  her  how  to  sing  like  that  ?  She  had  no  ear  for 
music  whatever  when  we  knew  her !" 

Gecko  was  silent  for  a  while,  and  Taffy  filled  his 
glass,  and  gave  him  a  cigar,  and  lit  one  himself. 

"Monsieur,  no  —  that  is  true.  She  had  not  much 
ear.  But  she  had  such  a  voice  as  had  never  been 
heard.  Svengali  knew  that.  He  had  found  it  out 
long  ago.  Litolff  had  found  it  out,  too.  One  day 
Svengali  heard  Litolff  tell  Meyerbeer  that  the  most 
beautiful  female  voice  in  Europe  belonged  to  an  Eng- 
lish grisette  who  sat  as  a  model  to  sculptors  in  the 
quartier  latin,  but  that  unfortunately  she  was  quite 
tone-deaf,  and  couldn't  sing  one  single  note  in  tune. 
Imagine  how  Svengali  chuckled  !  I  see  it  from  here! 

"Well,  we  both  taught  her  together  —  for  three 
years — morning,  noon,  and  night — six — eight  hours  a 
day.  It  used  to  split  me  the  heart  to  see  her  worked 
like  that!  We  took  her  voice  note  by  note — there  was 
no  end  to  her  notes,  each  more  beautiful  than  the 
other — velvet  and  gold,  beautiful  flowers,  pearls,  dia- 
monds, rubies —  drops  of  dew  and  honey;  peaches, 
oranges,  and  lemons !  en  veux-tu  en  voila, ! — all  the 
perfumes  and  spices  of  the  Garden  of  Eden !  Svengali 
with  his  little  flexible  flageolet,  I  with  my  violin — that 
is  how  we  taught  her  to  make  the  sounds — and  then 
how  to  use  them.  She  was  a  phenoraene,  monsieur ! 
She  could  keep  on  one  note  and  make  it  go  through 
all  the  colors  in  the  rainbow — according  to  the  way 
Svengali  looked  at  her.  It  would  make  you  laugh — it 
would  make  you  cry  —  but,  cry  or  laugh,  it  was  the 
sweetest,  the  most  touching,  the  most  beautiful  note 
you  ever  heard — except  all  her  others !  and  each  had 


"  '  WE  TOOK  HER  VOICE  NOTE  BT  NOTE  '  " 


as  many  overtones  as  the  bells  in  the  Carillon  de  Notre 
Dame.  She  could  run  up  and  down  the  scales,  chro- 
matic scales,  quicker  and  better  and  smoother  than 
Svengali  on  the  piano,  and  more  in  tune  than  any 
piano!  and  her  shake — ach  !  twin  stars,  monsieur! 
She  was  the  greatest  contralto,  the  greatest  soprano 
the  world  has  ever  known !  the  like  of  her  has  never 
been !  the  like  of  her  will  never  be  again  !  and  yet  she 
only  sang  in  public  for  two  years. 

"  Ach  !  those  breaks  and  runs  and  sudden  leaps  from 
darkness  into  light  and  back  again — from  earth  to 
heaven !  .  .  .  those  slurs  and  swoops  and  slides  a  la 


456 

Paganini  from  one  note  to  another,  like  a  swallow  fly- 
ing !  ...  or  a  gull !  Do  you  remember  them  ?  how 
they  drove  you  mad?  Let  any  other  singer  in  the 
world  try  to  imitate  them  —  they  would  make  you 
sick !  That  was  Svengali  ...  he  was  a  magician ! 

"And  how  she  looked,  singing!  do  you  remember? 
her  hands  behind  her— her  dear,  sweet,  slender  foot 
on  a  little  stool — her  thick  hair  lying  down  all  along 
her  back!  And  that  good  smile  like  the  Madonna's 
so  soft  and  bright  and  kind !  Ach  !  Bel  ucel  di  Dio  ! 
it  was  to  make  you  weep  for  love,  merely  to  see  her 
(c'etait  d  vous  faire  pleurer  c?  amour,  rien  que  de  la 
voir) !  That  was  Trilby !  Nightingale  and  bird-of- 
paradise  in  one ! 

"  Enfin  she  could  do  anything — utter  any  sound  she 
liked,  when  once  Svengali  had  shown  her  how  —  and 
he  was  the  greatest  master  that  ever  lived !  and  when 
once  she  knew  a  thing,  she  knew  it.  Et  voild!" 

"  How  strange,"  said  Taffy,  "  that  she  should  have 
suddenly  gone  out  of  her  senses  that  night  at  Drury 
Lane,  and  so  completely  forgotten  it  all !  I  suppose 
she  saw  Svengali  die  in  the  box  opposite,  and  that 
drove  her  mad !" 

And  then  Taffy  told  the  little  fiddler  about  Trilby's 
death-song,  like  a  swan's,  and  Svengali's  photograph. 
But  Gecko  had  heard  it  all  from  Marta,  who  was  now 
dead. 

Gecko  sat  and  smoked  and  pondered  for  a  while, 
and  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Then  he  pulled 
himself  together  with  an  effort,  so  to  speak,  and  said, 
"Monsieur,  she  never  went  mad  —  not  for  one  mo- 
ment !" 


467 

"  What !    Do  you  mean  to  say  she  deceived  us  all  ?" 

"  Non,  monsieur !  She  could  never  deceive  anybody, 
and  never  would.  She  had  forgotten — voild  tout  /" 

"But  hang  it  all,  my  friend,  one  doesn't  forget 
such  a — 

"  Monsieur,  listen !  She  is  dead.  And  Svengali  is 
dead — and  Marta  also.  And  I  have  a  good  little  mal- 
ady that  will  kill  me  soon,  Gott  sei  dank — and  without 
much  pain. 

"  I  will  tell  you  a  secret. 

"  There  were  two  Trilbys.  There  was  the  Trilby  you 
knew,  who  could  not  sing  one  single  note  in  tune.  She 
was  an  angel  of  paradise.  She  is  now  !  But  she  had 
no  more  idea  of  singing  than  I  have  of  winning  a 
steeple-chase  at  the  croix  de  Berny.  She  could  no 
more  sing  than  a  fiddle  can  play  itself!  She  could 
never  tell  one  tune  from  another — one  note  from  the 
next.  Do  you  remember  how  she  tried  to  sing  '  Ben 
Bolt'  that  day  when  she  first  came  to  the  studio  in 
the  Place  St.  Anatole  des  Arts?  It  was  droll,  heinf 
d  se  Voucher  les  oreilles  !  Well,  that  was  Trilby,  your 
Trilby  !  that  was  my  Trilby  too  — and  I  loved  her  as 
one  loves  an  only  love,  an  only  sister,  an  only  child — 
a  gentle  martyr  on  earth,  a  blessed  saint  in  heaven ! 
And  that  Trilby  was  enough  for  me  ! 

"  And  that  was  the  Trilby  that  loved  your  brother, 
madame — oh !  but  with  all  the  love  that  was  in  her ! 
He  did  not  know  what  he  had  lost,  your  brother! 
Her  love,  it  was  immense,  like  her  voice,  and  just  as 
full  of  celestial  sweetness  and  sympathy!  She  told 
me  everything !  cepauvre  Litrebili,  ce  qu'il  a  perdu! 

"  But  all  at  once — pr-r-r-out !  presto  !  augenblick ! 


458 

. .  .  with  one  wave  of  his  hand  over  her  —  with  one 
look  of  his  eye — with  a  word  —  Svengali  could  turn 
her  into  the  other  Trilby,  his  Trilby,  and  make  her 
do  whatever  he  liked  .  .  .  you  might  have  run  a  red- 
hot  needle  into  her  and  she  would  not  have  felt  it.  ... 

"  He  had  but  to  say  '  Dors !'  and  she  suddenly  be- 
came an  unconscious  Trilby  of  marble,  who  could  pro- 
duce wonderful  sounds  —  just  the  sounds  he  wanted, 
and  nothing  else — and  think  his  thoughts  and  wish 
his  wishes — and  love  him  at  his  bidding  with  a  strange 
unreal  factitious  love  .  .  .  just  his  own  love  for  himself 
turned  inside  out — a  Verniers — and  reflected  back  on 
him,  as  from  a  mirror  .  .  .  un  echo,  un  simulacre,  quoi  ! 
pas  autre  chose  /  .  .  .  It  was  not  worth  having  !  I 
was  not  even  jealous ! 

"Well,  that  was  the  Trilby  he  taught  how  to  sing 
-and — and  I  helped  him,  God  of  heaven  forgive  me ! 
That  Trilby  was  just  a  singing-maciiine — an  organ  to 
play  upon — an  instrument  of  music — a  Stradivarius — a 
flexible  flageolet  of  flesh  and  blood — a  voice,  and  noth- 
ing more — just  the  unconscious  voice  that  Svengali 
sang  with — for  it  takes  two  to  sing  like  la  Svengali, 
monsieur — the  one  who  has  got  the  voice,  and  the  one 
who  knows  what  to  do  with  it.  ...  So  that  when  you 
heard  her  sing  the  '  Xussbaum,'  the  '  Impromptu,'  you 
heard  Svengali  singing  with  her  voice,  just  as  you 
hear  Joachim  play  a  chaconne  of  Bach  with  his  fiddle ! 
.  .  .  Herr  Joachim's  fiddle  .  .  .  what  does  it  know 
of  Sebastian  Bach  ?  and  as  for  chaconnes  .  .  .  U  Jen 
moque pas  mal,  cefanieux  violon!  .  .  . 

"  And  our  Trilby  .  .  .  what  did  she  know  of  Schu- 
mann, Chopin  ? — nothing  at  all !  She  mocked  herself 


not  badly  of  Nussbaums  and  impromptus  .  .  .they 
would  make  her  yawn  to  demantibulate  her  jaws! 
...  When  Svengali's  Trilby  was  being  taught  to 
sing  .  .  .  when  Svengali's  Trilby  was  singing  — or 


THE  NIGHTINGALE'S  FIRST  SONG 


seemed  to  you  as  if  she  were  singing— our  Trilby  had 
ceased  to  exist  .  .  .  our  Trilby  was  fast  asleep  .  .  . 
in  fact,  our  Trilby  was  dead.  .  .  . 

« Ah,  monsieur  .  ,  .  that  Trilby  of  Svengali's !    I 


460 

have  heard  her  sing  to  kings  and  queens  in  royal  pal- 
aces !  ...  as  no  woman  has  ever  sung  before  or  since. 
...  I  have  seen  emperors  and  grand-dukes  kiss  her 
hand,  monsieur — and  their  wives  and  daughters  kiss 
her  lips,  and  weep.  .  .  . 

"  I  have  seen  the  horses  taken  out  of  her  sledge  and 
the  pick  of  the  nobility  drag  her  home  to  the  hotel 
.  .  .  with  torchlights  and  choruses  and  shoutings  of 
glory  and  long  life  to  her !  .  .  .  and  serenades  all 
night,  under  her  window !  .  .  .  she  never  knew !  she 
heard  nothing — felt  nothing — saw  nothing!  and  she 
bowed  to  them,  right  and  left,  like  a  queen ! 

"  I  have  played  the  fiddle  for  her  while  she  sang  in 
the  streets,  at  fairs  and  festas  and  Kermessen  .  .  .  and 
seen  the  people  go  mad  to  hear  her  .  .  .  and  once, 
at  Prague,  Svengali  fell  down  in  a  fit  from  sheer  excite 
ment!  and  then,  suddenly,  our  Trilby  woke  up  and 
wondered  what  it  was  all  about  .  .  .  and  we  took  him 
home  and  put  him  to  bed  and  left  him  with  Marta — 
and  Trilby  and  I  went  together  arm  in  arm  all  over 
the  town  to  fetch  a  doctor  and  buy  things  for  supper 
— and  that  was  the  happiest  hour  in  all  my  life ! 

"Ach  !  what  an  existence!  what  travels!  what  tri- 
umphs! what  adventures!  Things  to  fill  a  book — a 
dozen  books—  Those  five  happy  years — with  those 
two  Trilbys!  what  recollections!  ...  I  think  of 
nothing  else,  night  or  day  .  .  .  even  as  I  play  the 
fiddle  for  old  Cantharidi.  Ach !  ...  To  think  how 
often  I  have  played  the  fiddle  for  la  Svengali  ...  to 
have  done  that  is  to  have  lived  .  .  .  and  then  to 
come  home  to  Trilby  .  .  .  our  Trilby  .  .  .  the  real 
Trilby!  .  .  .  Got  sei  dank!  Ich  habe  qelicbt  und  ge- 


461 


lebet!  geliebt  und  gelebet!  geliebt  und  gelebet!  Cristo 
di  Dio  .  .  .  Sweet  sister  in  heaven  ...  6  Dieu  de 
Misere,  ayez  pitie  de  nous.  .  .  ." 

His  eyes  were  red,  and  his  voice  was  high  and  shrill 
and  tremulous  and  full  of  tears  ;  these  remembrances 
were  too  much  for  him ;  and  perhaps  also  the  cham- 
bertin  t  He  put  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  hid  his 
face  in  his  hands  and  wept,  muttering  to  himself  in 
his  own  language 
[whatever  that  might 
have  been  —  Polish, 
probably)  as  if  he 
were  praying. 

Taffy  and  his  wife 


;  ICH  HABB   GBL1EBT  UND  GXLBBET  /'  " 


got  up  and  leaned  on  the  window-bar  and  looked  out 
on  the  deserted  boulevards,  where  an  army  of  scaven- 
gers, noiseless  and  taciturn,  was  cleansing  the  asphalt 
roadway.  The  night  above  was  dark,  but  "  star-dials 
hinted  of  morn,"  and  a  fresh  breeze  had  sprung  up, 
making  the  leaves  dance  and  rustle  on  the  sycamore- 
trees  along  the  Boulevard  —  a  nice  little  breeze;  just 
the  sort  of  little  breeze  to  do  Paris  good.  A  four- 
wheel  cab  came  by  at  a  foot  pace,  the  driver  humming 
i  tune ;  Taffy  hailed  him ;  he  said,  "  Via,  m'sieur !" 
and  drew  up. 

Taffy  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  for  the  bill,  and  paid 
it.  Gecko  had  apparently  fallen  asleep.  Taffy  gen- 
tly woke  him  up,  and  told  him  how  late  it  was.  The 
poor  little  man  seemed  dazed  and  rather  tipsy,  and 
looked  older  than  ever ;  sixty,  seventy — any  age  you 
like.  Taffy  helped  him  on  with  his  great-coat,  and, 
taking  him  by  the  arm,  led  him  down-stairs,  giving 
him  his  card,  and  telling  him  how  glad  he  was  to 
have  seen  him,  and  that  he  would  write  to  him  from 
England — a  promise  which  was  kept,  one  may  be  sure. 

Gecko  uncovered  his  fuzzy  white  head,  and  took 
Mrs.  Taffy's  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  thanked  her 
warmly  for  her  "  si  bon  et  sympathique  accueil." 

Then  Taffy  all  but  lifted  him  into  the  cab,  the  jolly 
cabman  saying : 

"Ah!  bon — connais  bien,  celui  la;  vous  savez  — 
c'est  lui  qui  joue  du  violon  aux  Mouches  d'Espagne ! 
II  a  soupe",  1'  bourgeois;  n'est-ce  pas,  m'sieur?  'petits 
bonheurs  de  contrebande,'  hein? . .  .  ayez  pas  peur !  on 
vous  aura  soin  de  lui!  il  joue  joliment  bien,  m'sieur; 
n'est-ce  pas  ?'' 


463 

Taffy  shook  Gecko's  hand,  and  asked, 

"  Ou  restez-vous,  Gecko  ?" 

"  Quarante-huit,  Kue  des  Pousse  -cailloux,  au  cin- 
quieme." 

"  How  strange !"  said  Taffy  to  his  wife — "  how 
touching !  why,  that's  where  Trilby  used  to  live — the 
very  number!  the  very  floor  !" 

"  Oui,  oui,"  said  Gecko,  waking  up;  "c'est  1'ancienne 
mansarde  a  Trilby — j'y  suis  depuis  douze  ans— /y  suis, 
fy  reste.  ..." 

And  he  laughed  feebly  at  his  mild  little  joke. 

Taffy  told  the  address  to  the  cabman,  and  gave  him 
five  francs. 

"  Merci,  m'sieur !  C'est  de  1'aut'  cote  de  1'eau — 
pres  de  la  Sorbonne,  s'pas?  On  vous  aura  soin  du 
bourgeois ;  soyez  tranquille — aycz  pas  peur  !  quarante- 
huit ;  on  y  va !  Bonsoir,  monsieur  et  dame !"  And 
he  clacked  his  whip  and  rattled  away,  singing : 

"Via,  mon  mari  qui  r'.irurde — 

Prends  garde  ! 
Ne  m'chatouill'  plus  !" 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wynne  walked  back  to  the  hotel,  which 
was  not  far.  She  hung  on  to  his  big  arm  and  crept 
close  to  him,  and  shivered  a  little.  It  was  quite  chilly. 
Their  footsteps  were  very  audible  in  the  stillness ;  "pit- 
pat,  flopety-clop,"  otherwise  they  were  both  silent. 
They  were  tired,  yawny,  sleepy,  and  very  sad ;  and 
each  was  thinking  (and  knew  the  other  was  thinking) 
that  a  week  in  Paris  was  just  enough — and  how  nice  it 
would  be,  in  just  a  few  hours  more,  to  hear  the  rooks 
cawing  round  their  own  quiet  little  English  country 


464 


home — where  three  jolly  boys  would  soon  be  coming 
for  the  holidays. 

And  there  we  will  leave  them  to  their  useful,  hum- 
drum, happy  domestic  existence — than  which  there  is 
no  better  that  I  know  of,  at  their  time  of  life — and  no 
better  time  of  life  than  theirs  I 

"  OH  pewton  etre  mieux  gu'au  tein  de  sa  famitte  f" 

That  blessed  harbor  of  refuge  well  within  our  reach, 
and  having  really  cut  our  wisdom  teeth  at  last,  and 
learned  the  ropes,  and  left  off  hankering  after  the 
moon — we  can  do  with  so  little  down  here.  .  .  . 

A  little  work,  a  little  play 

To  keep  us  going — and  so,  good-day  I 

A  little  warmth,  a  little  light 

Of  love's  bestowing— and  so,  good-night! 

A  little  fun,  to  match  the  sorrow 

Of  each  day's  growing— and  so,  good-morrow  f 

A  little  trust  that  when  we  die 

We  reap  our  sowing  1    And  so — good-bye! 


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